When the Curtain Falls
by xtexan86
Summary: After recovering from Gunther's assassination attempt, Starsky goes back to work, but at another precinct and without Hutch! Has he made the right choice, or will it be the worst decision he's ever made? Chapters 26 & 27 posted. Story is complete.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note: **"When the Curtain Falls" is a sequel to my first Starsky & Hutch story, "A Sister's Love." Although it may be read independently, several characters in this sequel were introduced in the opening story. It is a long story, but I hope that you enjoy it and as always, constructive criticism is appreciated and encouraged.

**Warning:** This story contains scenes of adult sexual assault. If this bothers you, please don't read the story.

**Disclaimer:** I do own a 1975 Torino but I don't own Starsky or Hutch--I do like to play with all three though.

**Acknowledgement: **To my beta reader, **britwizz**. Thank you again, for the fine wax job you put on all my stories.

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**When the Curtain Falls**

Chapter One

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"I've got the back!"

_Dammit Starsky!_ Hutch barely caught sight of his partner scrambling out of the Torino on his way down the alley to the rear of the jewelry store. Still a little shaky from their wild ride through midday traffic, Hutch stumbled from the passenger seat and started running towards the front of the building. Just before he got to the sidewalk, he stopped and peeked around the corner, scanning the area around the front entrance. He glanced across the street, looking for any potential lookouts or getaway vehicles parked nearby. This had been the second holdup alarm from the store in as many weeks, and Hutch wanted to catch the robber just as much as his fiery partner did.

But there were two obstacles in the way. The first involved a lunatic who was trying to ambush police officers responding to holdup calls. So far, the individual had only succeeded in taking potshots at cops who were more accustomed to searching for perps at ground level than scanning rooftops for snipers. The second problem was that Starsky had transformed into an invulnerable super cop since returning back to full duty, and Hutch feared the indestructible drive was only propelling his partner into a head on collision with a lethal brick wall.

If this recent behavior wasn't bad enough, the previous six months had encompassed everything from seeing Starsky almost die in an assassination attempt to prying a loaded automatic from his grasp. Both times gun barrels were pointed directly at the brunet's chest. And from the way things seemed to be going, there wasn't an end in sight to Hutch's nightmare.

His gloomy reminiscing was sharply interrupted by a hooded gunman exiting the front door of the jewelry store.

"Police! Hold it right there!" Hutch yelled, aiming his Colt Python at the masked man.

The robber, momentarily caught off guard, ignored the warning and quickly turned around, running back inside the store.

"Shit!" Hutch said, as he ran from his cover. He stopped just at the edge of a large window set into the building's façade and peered inside. A store employee was standing behind a display counter, looking terrified with his arms raised in the air, and eyes staring straight ahead. Hutch ducked as he ran past the window and entered the store with arms straight out and both hands clasped around the revolver.

As he paused by the entrance, Hutch scanned around the interior before locking eyes with the scared clerk. "Police officer—which way did he go?" he said tersely. The man, his hands still raised, motioned towards the rear of the store.

Hutch ran past the clerk, ordering him to get down, and headed down the hallway just off to his left. He quickly checked inside a small office and then began making his way towards the exit. Halfway there, he heard two gunshots coming from the alley. _Starsky!_

Hutch sprinted down the hall and collided with the metal door. Slamming against the push bar, he opened the door and lunged into the alley. Just a few feet away, Hutch saw his partner hunched over the robber, the Beretta jammed against the goon's head as he lay on his side, holding his bloody thigh in a death grip.

"When I say 'freeze' that's what I mean!" Starsky growled into the man's ear, as he holstered his gun and reached into his back pocket for his cuffs.

"Fuck! I wasn't gonna shoot! Ya didn't have to blow my leg off," the wounded felon cried as he squeezed the leg even tighter.

"Oh, quit crying, you big baby. Do I look like your mother?" Starsky said, over the ratcheting sound of the handcuffs. "C'mon, give me that other hand!"

"Shit! You're hurting me!"

Hutch snapped out of his trance and holstered his revolver. The distant echo of approaching sirens began filtering into the alley as he went over to his partner. Starsky had secured the second bracelet and now stood up, gazing at his prisoner with a satisfied grin. He then raised his head and locked eyes with Hutch.

"What took ya so long?" he asked cheerily.

Without missing a beat, Hutch said, "Starsk, we gotta talk."

The smiling face turned serious. "Talk? Talk about what?"

The first black and white pulled into the alley right behind the Torino. Two uniformed officers got out and hustled over to the detectives. Hutch, much to his relief, recognized one of them.

"Hey, Bernie," he began. "See if you can get an ambulance rolling for this guy." Hutch then leaned closer and softly said, "And do me a favor? There's an employee inside. Get his statement and leave it on my desk, okay? Starsk and I gotta run."

"Sure, no problem, Hutch," Bernie replied.

Hutch gave the officer a quick pat on the back then turned to his partner. Starsky's hand was resting on his hip, his mouth opened in a look of surprise. Hutch brushed past him and muttered, "Let's go."

Not wanting to cause a scene in front of an audience, Starsky lifted both hands slightly as if in surrender and strutted after his partner. He had an idea why the blond was upset, but hardly felt he had done anything to warrant the reaction he'd just witnessed. After Hutch got in the Torino, Starsky climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut. He fired up the engine, then briskly maneuvered the car out of the alley and back onto the main road.

Bernie's partner turned and said, "Wonder what's up with those two?"

The older cop let go of a loud sigh. "I don't know, but I've seen lover's quarrels tamer than that."

The two detectives rode in silence until Starsky pulled the Ford into a vacant parking lot. Stopping the car, he slammed it into park and bolted out the door. He stopped by the hood, glaring at his partner as Hutch climbed out to join him.

"What the hell was that all about back there?" Starsky demanded, unable to hold his temper any longer. "You just gave our collar away to Bernie and a rookie!"

"Our collar?" Hutch shot out. "You mean _**your**_ collar, right?"

Starsky gave him a smirk. "Oh, so you're callin' me a selfish bastard now? Gee, thanks partner. I'll have to write that in my diary tonight."

"Starsk, what's wrong with you lately?"

"Me!? I should ask you the same thing. I'm doing my job," he said, pointing to his chest, "the same way I've always done my job."

"Oh, really? Seems to me we've always worked together. And what I saw back there in the alley, Starsk, was all you."

"Yeah? Just what did you see, buddy? You saying I shot him for the hell of it?"

Hutch took a deep breath. "You took off as soon as we drove up. You didn't check to see where I was or even where I was going. If that sniper had been around…would you have even known?"

Starsky pulled back, unnerved at the accusation. "Since when do we need a game plan, Hutch? That's how we've always handled a call like that. Are you mad at me because I didn't hold your hand…"

Starsky stopped in mid sentence, looking suddenly appalled. Both hands rested on his hips as he bowed his head. A sad smile appeared on his face.

"Obviously, I'm the one here who needs his hand held. Is that right?" Not waiting for a response, Starsky continued, "You of all people—I got released, Hutch. I thought I was done having to prove myself, but I guess not everyone's convinced yet."

Starsky blew out a short huff and began to walk back to the driver's door. Hutch bolted around the hood and tried grabbing hold of his partner's arm as it reached for the handle. Starsky whipped it out of Hutch's grasp and stood stiffly facing him, a look of hurt burning in his eyes.

"Starsk, that's not true. I never gave up hoping you'd make it back. It's just that lately, you've been…" Hutch couldn't think of a way to say what he wanted without provoking another outburst.

"Been what?" Starsky glared at him, then drew his head back. "Oh, I get it. Would it make you feel better if I wore a bullet-proof vest? Or maybe I shouldn't leave the office, where it's safe, huh? Better yet, I should just stay in bed and let someone else handle the dirty work. Is that what you want?"

Hutch wasn't surprised at Starsky's reaction. "I don't like the way you're taking chances," he began. "It's like you don't even care about getting shot—" Hutch nearly choked. Did he really just say that? He looked at Starsky with apologetic eyes, but the damage had already been done.

The brunet stared back, his anger gone, but replaced now by a look of defeat. After a long pause, he said, "You know, the first time I got shot, I remember thinking, 'God, this hurts like hell, but I'll survive.' Then you got shot—and I couldn't convince myself that you were going to make it. I was never so scared before in my life." Starsky took in a deep breath. "And then Gunther came along."

Starsky pushed past Hutch and walked over towards the front of the car. "I never told you this, but when those bullets hit, I felt every one tear right through me. After I hit the ground—I heard you—telling me to hang on. But when I couldn't breathe anymore, I was actually glad because I knew I was gonna die and the pain would stop."

He glanced at Hutch, regretting to finally have to tell his partner what he had kept locked up for all these months. "I guess I was being selfish. I wasn't thinking about how you'd feel, but nothing else mattered then."

Starsky walked over to Hutch, and stood stiffly in front of him. "I _**do**_ care, about facing the fact that I might have to go through that again. What scares me even more is it could happen to you. I feel it every day, Hutch. The twinges, the pulling. Every time I look at myself in the mirror. It's hard accepting all that. But what keeps me going is that I love doing this, and I still have you to do it with."

Hutch started to open his mouth, but Starsky interrupted. "So quit tearing yourself up worrying about me, I'm just fine. And quit thinkin' you could've done something different. You were there, right by me, and it still happened, Hutch. If the car had been parked the other way around…it would have been you, not me. That's the _**only**_ thing that would've been different that day."

"If all I had to worry about was someone hurting you, Starsk, that'd be one thing," Hutch started. "But you've still never told me about what you were going to do that night—" He thought back to the odd phone call he'd gotten from Starsky, and how he'd have never forgiven himself if he hadn't gone over to check on his partner.

"I thought we were done with that. You gonna keep holding it over my head?" Starsky looked off into the distance, his expression blank. "It's probably eatin' you up inside, not telling Dobey, huh?"

Hutch felt the intentional stab, but wasn't going to let Starsky play the guilt trip card. "No, but you never told me why, and that's what's eating me up. Whatever it was, Starsk, I'd just like to know."

"Don't you? You've got a psycho partner; face it, pal," Starsky said, trying not to sound serious.

Hutch frowned. It was still a taboo subject, and with every day that passed, the chances of him ever getting an honest answer from Starsky kept growing slimmer. He had tried a couple of times, when rare moments presented themselves, to get Starsky to give him some indication of why he had jabbed a 9mm automatic into his chest that night. But with each attempt, Hutch would only get some kind of dismissive answer. It had hurt to see Starsky so lost and hopeless, thinking he had nothing to live for. The fact that his friend didn't want to trust him with an explanation hurt even more.

As Hutch began to walk back over to the passenger side, Starsky could clearly read the body language.

"I can't do this, Hutch," he said. "If you don't feel I'm the same person I was before, then this isn't going to work."

The statement stopped Hutch cold. He turned around and said, "Starsky, you're not the same, but that's not the issue. I care more about you now than before, if that's even possible. The problem is, you can't admit to yourself that you've changed. You can't do this? Well, if that's how you feel, I won't stand in the way." Opening the car door, he added, "I'm going to work tomorrow. If you're there, ready to hit the street, I'll forget about the fact that less than a minute ago, you were ready to throw away an eight year partnership. If you're not, then I hope you're man enough to explain it to Dobey before I get there."

Hutch got in the Torino and slammed the door shut. Stunned, Starsky stood by the front fender, then pulled himself together and slipped in behind the wheel. He glanced at his watch while starting the engine. Their shift had ended fifteen minutes ago, but before either could go home, there was still the unwelcomed task of paperwork waiting to be done.

After each finished their reports, Starsky headed out to the parking lot with Hutch following right behind. Neither had said one word to each other at the precinct and the drive to Venice Place was long and silent. As soon as Starsky pulled over to the curb, Hutch got out and, without a word, marched into the building. Starsky stayed in the car for a few minutes, debating on whether to follow Hutch inside or not. Finally deciding against it, he slowly pulled away and headed for home.

Upstairs, Hutch watched the red and white Ford until it drove out of sight. Thoughts of anger and hurt pelted his mind, accompanied with unanswerable questions. How did everything go so wrong in six months? What had happened to make Starsky want to give up their partnership? He had never been a quitter, so why now? Hutch had watched him, every single day, fighting at first to stay alive, then fighting to accomplish everything that was asked of him. Only a handful of times did he ever falter and showed Hutch a glimpse of resignation. One of those moments had occurred fairly recently, though.

_They'd been working light duty. Starsky was actually the one assigned to a desk, but Hutch had no intention of working with another partner or going on patrol by himself. For Starsky, the time working indoors had been relatively short, but it was all Hutch had done since a month after the shooting. Although tired of being at a desk, he just viewed it as a temporary detail until his partner could rejoin him out on the street. At least, that had been the plan until the morning Dobey called Starsky into his office._

_Five minutes later, he had emerged looking overwhelmed and gave Hutch a defeated glance before marching out into the hallway. Hutch quickly caught up to his partner, but it wasn't until they made it out into the relative seclusion of the parking lot that Starsky shoved the letter from the review board at him._

"_They say I can't go back. The doc thinks I ain't healed up enough."_

_Hutch stared at him in disbelief, then reluctantly read through the letter. "Starsk, it says that 'until such time as.' That's only a fancy way of saying if things change, they'll reconsider their decision. Nothing's been permanently decided yet."_

"_You don't think I can read English? I know what the letter says, Hutch," Starsky began. "I just don't know how much more I can squeeze out. The therapists have been telling me for weeks that I'm not improving. And from what Dobey said, the board wants me back to almost where I was before..." His gaze settled on the pavement. "What if this is the best I'll ever be?"_

"_You'll find a way to try harder. I've never known you to quit anything—." Hutch inadvertently stumbled on the last word. Two weeks ago he was fighting to pull a loaded automatic out of Starsky's hands. Nestling up to his partner, Hutch draped an arm over the tired shoulders and drew Starsky close to him. "I'm right here, pal. We'll get through this."_

"_This ain't the Wizard of Oz, Hutch. You can't click your heels together and make miracles happen."_

"_How did you know I had a pair of ruby slippers?"_

_Starsky slipped from under Hutch's arm and walked a few feet away. He stuck both hands in his pockets and then dipped his head. "Who am I tryin' to fool? Just been a big waste of a lot of people's time. Maybe I need to quit acting like everything's gonna be like it used to."_

_The words from Starsky's mouth hit Hutch like a sledgehammer. He'd never seen self pity or heard a defeatist syllable from his partner since he started recovering from the shooting. After searching his heart, there was only one thing Hutch could say. "Starsky, you can't quit now. If you do, then everything thing you've worked for, every bit of pain, won't have mattered. And the worst part is, we'd be admitting Gunther won."_

_Starsky turned and faced Hutch, the look in his face not open to interpretation. "You got it wrong. Gunther won, he won alright. Maybe not like he would've wanted to, but he did." He stayed silent for a bit, and then with a different inflection said, "Dobey said I'd get another shot in thirty days. Maybe you should dig out those slippers—just in case." _

Hutch leaned his head back in the recliner, still thinking about that earlier conversation. Starsky did try, as hard as he ever had, and was reinstated by the department's review board. Hutch couldn't recall a time he'd seen Starsky happier, but his admission about Gunther having won was disturbing. Hutch never asked him to explain it, thinking it'd be better if that was one thing left undiscussed.

Today, though, hearing those words about the shooting ripped into him probably the same way those bullets had torn into Starsky's body. Unwanted and uninvited, the painful memory of that morning at the police garage seeped into his thoughts.

_Before he'd even run around the hood of the Torino, Hutch knew Starsky had been hit. He'd heard his name shouted out, but only the first syllable. All he could do was hope his partner was still with him. When Hutch cleared the front end, and got his first view of Starsky, he'd never seen such a horrific sight. The bright redness drew his attention first. The glistening blood on Starsky's chest had already soaked through his shirt and was beginning to pool on the ground. Hutch rushed to his friend's side and gently cupped the curly head in his hand. The momentary relief he felt as he embraced the glimpse of recognition in his partner's eyes, just as quickly disappeared as Starsky suddenly convulsed and a stream of frothy blood poured out of his mouth. As the blue eyes rolled back and one last gasp struggled in, Hutch sensed the inevitable begin to happen and screamed at Starsky from the depths of his shattered soul to hang on. And screamed, and screamed, and… _

Hutch withdrew from the past and entered the present reality of his living room. As he massaged the bridge of his nose, he found himself once again mentally debating the issue of fairness and that most perplexing subject, fate. Starsky was right. One of them had been destined to be a target that day. Heads or tails, someone was going to lose. How his partner always seemed to rationalize things like that was beyond Hutch's comprehension.

"_It's always hardest on the ones left behind. Yeah? I'll believe that when I hear from someone who went first."_

And always so practical. Starsky never seemed to blame anyone or anything when the world decided to turn his life upside down, even when there was no question who was responsible. When Starsky buried Terri, he didn't hate George Prudholm, only what he'd done. Back at the old zoo, Hutch didn't want Starsky to shoot that unarmed bastard, but he would have lied, and gladly, to cover his partner if he had killed him. He wondered if Starsky would have pulled the trigger if he'd known what circumstances lay ahead. Having a father murdered is hard enough, but being able to prevent losing another loved one in the same manner would've been hard to refuse.

Perhaps that's why he wanted to protect Starsky so much. That enduring spirit of his, in spite of life's nasty twists, could only go so far.

So what had happened to that bundle of optimism, Saint David Michael? Obviously, he was either putting on a good show, or didn't realize how the person who knew him best could see the changes and worried how Starsky was coping. Maybe the shooting was too much. It was one thing to mend a broken body, quite another to try and mend a lost soul. Hutch had seen Starsky's mood swing like a pendulum from pure elation to wanting to die. The frightening part was that it was still swinging out to both extremes.

Hutch got up and went over to grab the phone. He started to dial the number of someone who could have an answer, hoping she wouldn't hang up as soon as she heard his voice.

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Starsky pulled into his driveway and parked. He had driven past half a dozen fast food restaurants and at least that many pizzerias and not stopped at any of them, knowing full well there was nothing to eat in his refrigerator. His appetite was lost somewhere, probably along with his sanity. As he entered the apartment, he took off his jacket and then slipped the holster from his body. Starsky examined the hard leather holder and the metal gun grip angling out from the opening. He thought about the people who had died from that gun, and how he'd almost became its last victim.

_Those who live by the sword…_

Where had he heard that before? Well, if it was true, then he really should be dead.

_But, I'm not. I should be—someone that's had their heart stop is usually considered dead._

He let out a frustrated sigh as he hung the holster on the coat rack then went into the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator, he was glad to see two bottles of beer tucked away on the bottom shelf. He grabbed one and popped off the cap, then returned to the living room. As he settled on the couch, his muscles almost screamed in relief as he stretched out on the soft mattress. Over on the coffee table, he saw the plastic prescription bottle of Percocet sitting there from last night, calling to him.

Before returning to work, Starsky had begun weaning himself off of the powerful drug, convinced his body was healing enough to go without it. However, the added stress and movement from being back on the job had frequently pushed him beyond his limit and the drug was now both a blessing and a curse. On days like today, there was nothing better he could take to feel almost normal again, but on the other hand, it was a painful reminder of the type of drug he still needed. Starsky had tried a couple of times to go entirely without it, but the pain was too hard to hide at work. Since the drug made him pretty dopey, he only took it in the evening, but getting through the day was tough. He worried about what would happen when the remaining pills ran out.

His doctor had explained the soreness was coming from scar tissue that had developed underneath the incision sites and throughout the injured sections of his lungs. He could have more surgery, but the relief might only be temporary as new adhesions would likely form.

He reached over and snatched the bottle, dumping one of the off-white pills into his hand and guzzling it down with a mouthful of beer. He unbuttoned his shirt and lay back down on the sofa, waiting for the first signs of wavy euphoria to begin coursing through his body. Starsky thought about his conversation with Hutch out in the parking lot. His partner knew him well, almost too well, but what he hadn't picked up on was the way Starsky had lied about Gunther's assault.

Starsky was proud he had told Hutch as much as he had. He didn't blame the blond for coming out of the shooting physically unscarred. If he knew anything about his partner, it was that the man could hold himself responsible for Starsky stubbing his toe in his own bathroom. Sure, he had borne the attack's bodily injuries, but Hutch had weathered its mental ones, which were for him probably more painful than physical wounds. Still, there was one thing Starsky couldn't come to terms with, and that was the simple act of fate.

Why was the Torino parked that way? Why had he been shot at the restaurant? Why did Bellamy get to him first?

_I guess I'm just feeling sorry for myself. Hutch has had his share of close calls, but..._

For the first time, Starsky was starting to wish he could shoulder more of the emotional, rather than physical scars. Up until a year ago, he had been proud of his body. Strutting shirtless on the beach was practically a ritual on his days off, as close to achieving a drug fix as the cop could get. But after the incident with Rothman, where he'd been shot point blank in his side and nearly gutted by a switchblade, the t-shirts had stayed on while enjoying the ocean. Now, Starsky couldn't even bear to go shirtless in the locker room at the precinct. He peered down the front of his chest, and ran a finger along one of the surgical incisions. It was the longest scar, stretching from the top of his breastbone halfway down to his belly button. The slightly puckered, pinkish line still showed the healed marks from staples dotting both sides. He briefly inspected a bullet wound, then shifted his gaze away, wishing the impossible dream that one day he could see his body whole again. As the comforting wave of the drug finally kicked in, Starsky took one more gulp of beer, then closed his eyes to begin the descent into another sleepy oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much everyone, for the encouraging reviews! Here is the next chapter.

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Chapter Two

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As Hutch pulled into the precinct lot, he wasn't sure what to make of the Torino sitting parked among a row of patrol cars. A part of him hoped his partner was upstairs, dosing himself with the morning's first cup of caffeine, and eager to start their usual routine. However, seeing Starsky at work nearly twenty minutes before their shift started hinted at a less than encouraging outcome.

Hutch's stomach dropped a bit as he walked into the squad room and didn't see his curly haired counterpart anywhere. Since Dobey's door was open, Hutch nonchalantly strode past, taking a quick peek inside. The captain was waiting.

"Hutch—get in here and close the door," he grumbled.

As Hutch stepped into the office, a chill went through him. The look on Dobey's face almost matched the queasy feeling in his stomach. Without further instruction, Hutch sat down, keeping his eyes glued on his boss.

"I want to know what's going on between you and your partner," Dobey said, a tenseness in his voice.

Hutch's eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "I'm not sure what you're talking about, Captain."

"I'm talking about why Starsky wants to pair up with another partner, and in another precinct!"

"Another _precinct_?"

Dobey could tell by the look on Hutch's face that this was the first he was hearing about it. "He wouldn't tell me why, just said he needed a 'change of scenery.' Now, I don't know what's going on between you two, but before I sign these transfer papers, I'd like some answers!"

Hutch was still trying to convince himself he hadn't misunderstood what Dobey had just said. Gathering his wits, he asked, "When did he talk to you?"

"I'm surprised you didn't see him on your way in. He just left."

Hutch sprang out of his seat and charged out of the office. The captain let out a sigh and sank back in his seat, wondering what was splitting his best detective team apart.

Not sure where to start looking, Hutch went downstairs to the locker room. There, sitting alone on a bench and looking as though he hadn't slept in days, was Starsky. He glanced at Hutch, then let out a sigh and stood up.

"Mind letting me in on your plan, or don't I count anymore?" Hutch said curtly.

Starsky bowed his head and cracked a smile. He deserved that comment. He reached into the open locker in front of him and pulled out a t-shirt, stuffing it into the duffel bag on the bench.

"I didn't think you'd be dancing for joy, but I wasn't exactly sure either."

Hutch continued to glare at him, unmoved by the poor attempt at an explanation. Starsky lifted the latch and shut the metal door. "I just need some new surroundings, Hutch. Every place I go lately seems to bring back memories of stuff I'd rather forget."

"That include me too?" Hutch shot out. "I guess it must. Dobey didn't mention that I'd be joining you."

Starsky zippered up the bag and grabbed the handles, hesitating for a moment before picking it up. "I wish there could've been another way to do this. We had a good run, Hutch…let's just leave it there." Starsky brushed by him and headed for the door. Before opening it, he glanced over his shoulder and quietly said, "Don't forget to watch your back."

Hutch stood and watched the door close, not sure whether to explode or cry. He slumped down on the wooden bench and buried his face in his hands. Whatever had embedded itself into the man he cared so much about and was tearing him away, had certainly won this round. The problem was, how was Hutch going to fight something that he couldn't understand?

When Starsky returned to Dobey's office, the captain put down the report he was reading and stared unemotionally at his visitor. He could easily deny the detective's request, but that would just leave him with a miserable and frustrated employee, and Dobey cared far too much about the man to do that. He picked up Starsky's transfer papers and handed them to him.

"I spoke to Captain McMillan over at the Fifth Precinct. He's expecting you. His department is short one detective right now, so he may not say too much about how you're dressed." Dobey glanced down at Starsky's faded jeans.

Starsky followed the scrutinizing gaze, then sheepishly looked back at Dobey. "Is he expecting me to show up in a three-piece suit?" he quipped.

"No, but I'd forget the blue jeans for a while. And whatever you do, _don't_ let him see your car."

Starsky gave him a half-hearted grin, then folded up the paperwork he was holding. He stuck out his hand, offering it to Dobey. "Thanks, Captain, for doing this on such a short notice. Make sure you tell Edith and the kids I won't be a stranger."

Dobey stood and grabbed hold of Starsky's hand. "Dave, God knows you deserve some peace of mind and a little happiness. If this doesn't turn out like you think it will, don't hesitate to call me. I'll do anything I can—I hope you know that."

Forcing down a hard swallow, Starsky replied, "Don't worry, Dad, I'll make you proud of me."

"Well, there's always a first time for everything," Dobey muttered as he let the inference pass and sat back down. "Did you talk to Hutch?"

Starsky nodded his head, trying to avoid eye contact.

"He's been hurting, too, Starsky. I hope whatever you said to him took that into account."

Knowing he had to leave before he simply couldn't anymore, Starsky headed towards the door. He stopped just before reaching the squad room, and looked back at Dobey. "Make sure you put 'im with someone that'll take care of him." With that, he slipped out of the office, head held down and feeling like he'd just abandoned everyone he'd ever cared about.

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Hutch sat at his desk, engrossed in paperwork and purposely avoiding any interaction with his coworkers. He had run out of gracious answers to the single question of "Hey, Hutch, where's Starsky?" and was ready to slug the next person who asked him. He glanced at the clock, not surprised to see that time was crawling by. He still had about fifteen minutes before he could expect a call from the desk downstairs letting him know his visitor had arrived.

When he'd called her the night before, he hadn't been sure of the reception he'd get. Their brief romance had been passionate, but each could see their strong personalities were keeping them at a distance, rather than keeping them in love. It was a mutual decision, but like most breakups, it hadn't been completely without a few emotional injuries. Still, by the end of their phone conversation, she had agreed to meet for lunch.

At last, the phone rang. After a brief exchange, Hutch hung up, grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and made his way down to the first floor. Spotting her waiting in the reception area, he was reminded of the first time he had seen her there, slender arms wrapped tightly around Starsky. That initial attraction could still be felt as he paused for a moment and studied the lovely feminine form.

Seeing Hutch, the woman approached him slowly. "So, what'd you tell your partner so he wouldn't suspect you were ditching him for another brunet?" she said seductively.

"Starsky's not here. He transferred over to another precinct."

The woman stood shocked and motionless, staring at Hutch as if she expected him to say 'just fooling' at any moment. "Oh God…I don't know what to say," she started. "You had no idea?"

Hutch briefly closed his eyes. "No. He's not himself, and it's scaring me. I can't let him do this, Bree. Your brother is going to self-destruct if one of us doesn't get through to him, and fast."

.

Starsky stood outside the office door, hesitating to knock until he took one last cursory look over his attire. Before arriving at the Fifth Precinct, he had stopped at his apartment and managed to find a clean pair of cotton slacks along with a casual long sleeve shirt. He'd also switched his leather jacket for a velour one and, as a last compromise, taken off the Adidas sneakers and put on his brown leather tennis shoes. Hoping the change of attire was sufficient, he knocked on Captain McMillan's door.

"So, seems you come with some impressive commendations," Barry McMillan said after glancing through Starsky's paperwork. "Makes one certainly want to ask the obvious question—why do you want to transfer out of a precinct that you've been working in for, what, almost eight years is it?"

"Well, sir, it's actually been more like twelve years. I worked in uniform for four years before making detective," Starsky explained. "As far as wanting to transfer, I feel I'm at that stage of my career where I need to take on some new challenges, and working in a different precinct would provide that." He mentally squirmed at the bullshit coming out of his mouth, but he hoped that McMillan would buy at least half of it.

He'd been trying to sum up the captain since walking into his office. The man was in his mid-fifties, showing a bit of wear and tear, but certainly in better shape and a more finicky dresser than Dobey. The fine tailor-made suit he was wearing certainly hadn't come off the rack at Woolworth's. His grayish-brown hair was combed straight back, revealing the beginning of baldness around his forehead, and deep golden brown eyes added to his intense persona.

"Yes. Well, allow me to let you in on a little secret, Sergeant. I was a cop before you were out of diapers. Now, personally, I could care less about why you decided to come here, as long as we get one thing straight." McMillan leaned over the desk, waving a finger at Starsky. "I'm not your mother, social worker or therapist. Captain Dobey assured me you weren't a problem child looking for a new home. I hope he's correct, because if he isn't, you'll find yourself bounced out of here so fast you'll never know what hit you. Have I made myself clear?"

"Perfectly, Captain."

"Fine. I'll introduce you to your partner, then."

McMillan led Starsky out of the office and down the hall to the squad room. At first glance, the room and its occupants didn't differ much from his old precinct. Two rows of desks lined up end to end in the middle of the room surrounded by various sizes of file cabinets and book shelves. The detectives he saw all appeared to be in their forties, a few even in their late fifties. But studying the room closer, Starsky noticed there were no personal items sitting on the desks. No pictures, trinkets or gaudily colored piggy banks. Also, every computer printout, manual and stack of paperwork was neatly arranged on the tops of the desks and file cabinets. Obviously the captain preferred things very orderly and precise. Starsky was beginning to understand Dobey's earlier comments about the man.

"David Starsky, meet Trevor Woods. Trevor's been a detective here for over fifteen years. I'm sure you'll learn a lot from him."

The middle-aged man rose from his chair and shook Starsky's hand. "Glad to meet you," he said, giving the brunet a quick head to toe glance. Trevor was dressed in a grey-blue tailored business suit, complete with a buttoned vest and cuff links. The polished leather of his wingtip shoes shone almost as brightly as the Torino after a wax job.

"Yeah, same here," Starsky said, forcing a smile. He wondered if all he'd ever learn from the guy was whether polyester with cotton blend was the best material for casual work attire or what shoe polish produced the deepest shine.

McMillan slapped Starsky lightly on the back, and said, "Well, I'll let you boys get acquainted. Don't worry, Trevor's broke in more than one newcomer since he's been here."

With that, the captain walked out of the room. Starsky felt like the new kid on the block, and the neighborhood nerd at that. The scrutinizing stares from the other detectives in the room hadn't escaped him either. He was starting to worry if he had just stepped into a modern day version of the Twilight Zone.

"So, have you been a detective for very long?" Trevor asked.

"Eight years." Starsky had to work at not making his tone sound too caustic.

"Oh?" Trevor replied, genuinely surprised. "Here in Bay City?"

"Yeah. I've been working out of the Ninth for the past twelve years, eight as a detective."

The amazed look on Trevor's face turned into one of unease. "Well, I guess I don't have to give you the newbie speech then, huh?"

Starsky smiled again, although it was hardly sincere. "We could probably skip that one. How 'bout showin' me what your normal routine is," he said, scanning the room. "Like where the coffee machine is and which filing clerk is the most…friendly." He raised an eyebrow just a little.

Trevor eyed him blankly. "Coffee, we get downstairs in the cafeteria. The captain doesn't like us to have drinks around the desks. Accidents happen, you know. As for the other part of your question, most of us here are married, and frankly, the boss would chew our butts out if he thought anyone was being, well, unprofessional."

It was Starsky's turn to look vacant. _Well, you did ask for this, dummy. _"Oh, that's okay," he said. "Just kidding. So, why don't you show me the ropes—it looks like I do have a lot to learn about this place." _Yeah, like a ton_.

For the next hour, Trevor led Starsky around the building, introducing him to various employees and showing him the location of the different departments. As they headed back to the squad room, Starsky was getting curious about one thing in particular.

"Hey, Trevor, when do you go out and patrol?"

"Patrol?"

"Yeah, you know, patrol." Not seeing a response, Starsky added, "When you go out and drive around and see what's happening in town?"

"Oh, you mean _patrol._ Uh, we don't do that. I mean, that's for the uniform guys. We just investigate."

Starsky thought his world had just ended. "You mean you stay in here all day?"

"No. When we get a call, an assignment, we go out and work the case."

"And the rest of the time, you work in the office?" Starsky wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer to that.

Trevor could sense the hidden anxiety behind Starsky's questions. He had seen it many times before. Young cops who just wanted to go out and prove themselves. It was a rite of passage in the profession, and experience had shown the custom wasn't going to change any time soon. The older, more seasoned cops like himself had gotten the craving out of their systems a long time ago. He found it interesting that David seemed to still have that burning desire, which was odd, considering he certainly wasn't a rookie. '_Oh, what the hell_,' he thought.

"Tell you what, David. I've got to go talk to a witness again on a case I'm working. Why don't we go take a spin and I'll show you some of what the Fifth looks like."

"Sounds good to me_." My God, I thought he'd never ask!_

As the two men walked out to the parking lot, Trevor said, "So where's your car?"

Any other time, Starsky would have jumped for joy if someone had asked that, but he wasn't sure about Trevor's tastes yet.

"It's the red Ford over there," he replied, pointing at the far end of the lot.

Trevor glanced at the car. The white stripe caught his eye and he started over to it. Upon reaching the Torino, he gave it a thorough inspection. Something about the car was disturbingly familiar.

"This a Torino?" he asked.

"Yeah, a Gran Torino. 1974. Had to take a loan out to buy it." Starsky gazed lovingly at the vehicle.

"Aren't you a little old for racing stripes?" Trevor asked, halfway serious.

Starsky frowned. One of these days he'd find a partner that appreciated a fine car. "I guess some of us just never want to grow up," he answered.

Trevor let out a slight chuckle. Suddenly, it dawned on him what the car reminded him of.

Starsky caught the change of expression. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked.

Trevor turned his attention to the brunet, shaken at what he had just realized.

"What?" Starsky didn't like what he saw on Trevor's face.

"You were the detective, weren't you? Six months ago, the shooting in the precinct lot—"

Starsky's expression turned cold and he bowed his head. The day had just gone from bad to worse. "Yeah, that was me."

The older man studied his partner's reaction, then suddenly understood. "Hey, I'm sorry. I should have known it'd be a sore subject. It's just I remember seeing pictures of the car—" Trevor caught the pained expression just before Starsky turned away. Feeling like a complete heel, he said, "Forget I mentioned it. Look, lunch is on me today."

"Wadda ya want to know?" Starsky asked, gazing out across the lot.

"Huh?"

Turning back to face Trevor, Starsky repeated the question. "About the shooting. What do you want to know?"

Embarrassed, Trevor replied, "Nothing. That's your business, it's none of mine."

"Look—Trevor. If we're gonna be partners, we shouldn't be afraid to ask each other questions. Believe me, there's nothin' you could ask that hasn't been before. It's okay, really."

"Alright. Was that your first time? Getting shot?"

"No. I'd had it happen a few times before." _Yeah, just a few._

"Holy cow, man. And you still wanted to come back to work?" Trevor couldn't imagine himself wanting to stay on the job after surviving something like that.

"Yeah, I guess a lot of people would think it was crazy. I just wasn't ready to be put out to pasture. Besides, I needed a job so the bank won't repossess my car."

A smile lit across Trevor's face. He would have never guessed at the depth of commitment behind the brunet's rough exterior. "I don't remember hearing anything about your partner. Was he hurt also?"

Starsky flinched a little. "No." _At least, not physically._ "He didn't get shot."

Trevor could tell from Starsky's body language that he wasn't comfortable talking about the shooting. There was one question, though, he had to ask.

"So how long have you been back to work, David?"

"For a few weeks," Starsky answered, shifting back on his heels. He was hoping the inquisition was coming to a close.

"Well, all I can say is I think you're pretty gutsy staying in this business. But I've got some bad news for you."

Starsky shot him a confused look.

"It's my day to drive," Trevor said, with a coy smile, "so the racing car's going to have to stay parked in the pit."

As the feeling of relief took over his body, Starsky let out a snort and followed Trevor over to his department issued Ford Granada. Even though the car was a far cry from an LTD, Starsky still couldn't resist comparing it to the beat up junker belonging to a certain blond. A blond he was already missing a great deal.

.

Bree and Hutch sat at a table in the Mexican restaurant, waiting for their order to arrive. So far the conversation had been light, each asking the other the expected questions.

"You're looking good, Bree. How's the new job going?"

"I like it. At first I wasn't sure if I'd enjoy working around sick people all day long, but the doctor who runs the clinic is really amazing." Bree's position as a receptionist for the last couple of months was going well. "I think the best part of it is I get free health insurance as a benefit. It's not cheap you know, to go and see a doctor anymore."

Hutch acknowledged with a smile. Even though he was a regular consumer of medical services, he'd never paid attention to the cost. But the conversation's topic was only drawing him away from what he really wanted to discuss. Taking a deep breath, he decided to just spit it out.

"Bree, I don't know what's going on with Starsky. These past few weeks since he's been back on the street, he hasn't been the same person. He says he's being careful and pretends like nothing's changed, but it's like working with an out of control rookie who doesn't think before he acts." Hutch played a little with his napkin, then continued. "When I called him on it yesterday, I think I said the wrong thing…"

"What was that?' Bree asked.

"I told him he was acting like he didn't care about getting shot."

"Oh," Bree moaned. "What did David say?"

"In so many words—that he did care, and he was tired of me worrying about him so much."

"He's very independent, Ken, you know that. But it is hard to tell when he wants you to help and when he wants you to back off."

Hutch leaned back in his seat, and tried to choose his words carefully. "He needs more help then what I can give him, Bree. A couple of months ago, I think he wanted to kill himself."

"He what!?"

"Starsky called me late one night. At first I thought he was just drunk, but he wanted to know if I'd keep his car if he gave it to me. I'm not sure why I just didn't blow him off and go back to sleep, but thank God I didn't." Hutch had shifted his attention back to the napkin. "When I got to the apartment, Starsky was sitting on the couch, holding a gun to his chest. For the longest time, he wouldn't even acknowledge me. He just sat there staring off into space. When I tried to get the gun from him, he threatened to shoot himself if I didn't leave. It took a long time, but I got through, at least enough for him to let go of the gun. He promised me he'd go talk to a shrink, but I don't think he ever did."

Astonished, Bree shook her head. "Did he say why he wanted to…to do that?

"No. About all he ever said was that he was 'tired.' But I don't know what's tearing him up so bad. We both know what he went through with the shooting, and how he fought so hard to come back to work."

"I guess I'm at a loss, too. I've called him at least a couple of times every week. He never sounds down or like he's hurting."

"When's the last time you saw him, Bree?"

"I'm not sure, maybe a few weeks ago. Why?"

"Did he look okay to you? I mean, did it look like he might be in some kind of physical pain?"

Bree paused for a moment, trying to remember. "No, I don't think so. I guess to be honest, I wasn't really watching him that close. Have you seen something different?"

Hutch took a sip of water from his glass. "Not exactly, but I'd bet my next paycheck he's hiding something. He can be a good actor if he wants to."

After the waiter arrived and served their food, Bree said, "I'll stop by his place tonight, make it look like I was in the neighborhood. I'm not sure how far I'll get, though. The last thing I want to do is drive him further away." She stared at Hutch before continuing. "I'm scared, Ken. We came so close to losing him..."

"Yeah, I know. I'm scared too, Bree."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Many thanks again everyone, especially to those taking the time to post a review - it's definately icing on the cake!

Chapter 3

.

Starsky slowly eased out of the Torino. He'd made it home, just barely. The day had been a long one, longer than he'd expected. Every muscle in his body felt like it was on the verge of seizing. Now all he had to do was walk up the stairs to his apartment and make it to the couch before he collapsed.

Finally shuffling in through the door, Starsky simultaneously yanked off his jacket and holster, not caring that neither made it to the coat rack, and stumbled over to the sofa. He dove onto the mattress, almost crying at the small amount of relief it provided. Shifting onto his back, he laid an arm across his forehead, closed his eyes, and tried to will his decrepit body to relax. Too tired to even get a glass of water so he could take a pain pill, he let himself drift off for a few moments.

The knocking at the door abruptly woke him. He blearily looked at his watch, realizing he had been asleep for a little more than an hour. He tried to swing a leg over, but his body wasn't going to cooperate fast enough. Hoping his visitor wasn't a gang of armed robbers, he called out as loud as he could, "It's open."

Bree opened the door and peeked into the apartment. "Davey? It's me." Not hearing an answer, she took a few steps forward. "Davey?" she repeated, a little louder.

"I'm here."

Bree saw an arm rise up from the sofa. Relieved, she came in and closed the door. She almost tripped on the jacket and holster laying on the floor, and picked the items up, hanging them on the wooden peg rack. She then went into the living room, and cast a worried gaze on the person lying helpless before her.

"You look like crap. What happened?" she asked as she leaned over and placed her hand on his forehead.

"I'm fine. Haven't you seen a guy trying to take a nap before?"

"Your face feels warm; you got a fever?" Bree slipped her jacket off and placed it on the chair beside her.

"Who are you? My mother?"

"You keep that attitude up, and I'll call Mom in a heartbeat."

Starsky rolled his eyes and let out a loud sigh. "Hey, I'm good. C'mere." He raised both arms, wanting a hug.

Bree sat down on the edge of the couch and cradled David as best as she could, giving him a tight squeeze. Breaking the embrace, she ran one hand through his curls. "You really look like shit. How're ya feelin'?"

Starsky squinted and said, "You want the truth, or a perfectly good lie?"

"The truth," she said, poking a finger at his nose.

"I feel like shit."

"Thought so." Bree glanced at the prescription bottle on the coffee table. She picked it up, and examined the label. "You need one of these?" she asked, choosing not to press the issue of why he was taking such potent medication.

He looked like he wanted to tell her no, but couldn't.

Reading him perfectly, Bree smiled and got up. She went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Not seeing anything except a few condiments and a bottle of beer, she slammed the door shut and grabbed a glass sitting by the sink, filling it with water. She came back and placed the glass in David's hand, then picked up the pill bottle and shook out one tablet.

"Open up," she said, and when he did, she placed the pill inside his mouth.

Starsky swallowed it along with half of the water. He then set the glass on the floor beside him.

"Davey, your refrigerator is empty."

"Been busy. Haven't had time to go grocery shopping."

Bree scanned his body and noticed he looked thinner than when she'd seen him last. "I'd be happy to go and pick up some stuff for you. Anything special you'd like me to get?"

"No. Don't worry, I'll go later on. How's work been?"

"David," she said sternly, "don't play games with me. You've been sick, and I'm not leaving until I know you'll be okay."

"I'm _not_ sick. Just tired. There's a difference."

Bree could think of only one way to get around his stubbornness. She placed her hand over an area on the right side of his chest; a spot she knew had been severely injured from the shooting.

"So you're not sick, huh? Then if I press down, that won't hurt you, right?"

Starsky's face pulled back, his eyes showing signs of concern. "Don't," he said, and laid a hand on top of hers.

"How long has it been hurting? And don't lie to me!"

"A couple of days."

"Liar!" Bree started to gently press down.

Starsky firmly gripped her hand, and gave her a stern look. "Okay, you win. About a week. You happy?"

Bree slid her hand out from under his. "Did you see the doctor?"

"No. Don't need to. What's he gonna tell me that I don't already know?"

Bree cocked her head to the side, at a loss as to what to say. She stood and picked her jacket off the chair. As she put it on, she looked over at David. "I'll be back in an hour. When I get back, you better still be resting on that couch."

"And just where are you going?" Starsky demanded, trying to follow the retreating form with his eyes.

"To the grocery store!" Bree yelled as she flew out the front door and slammed it behind her.

"Something tells me she didn't believe me," he said, as he closed his eyes and nestled his head back into the pillow.

.

Trevor sat down at the kitchen table, joining his wife, Mary, for dinner. Tonight's meal was one of his favorites, pork chops with apple sauce and home-made mashed potatoes. As he started to mix together the sauce and potatoes, Mary looked up from her plate.

"How was work today?"

She had asked that same question, at the same time, for nearly twenty years. It never bothered Trevor, though. Dinner was generally the one occasion he felt like discussing his job. Sometimes there wasn't much to talk about; other times, he would tell his wife things that brought tears to both of them. But he had always cherished Mary's ability to listen. Many cop's marriages had failed for want of that one simple courtesy, but not his, not so far, and he was grateful.

"Got a new partner. He came over from the Ninth Precinct. Name's David Starsky." Trevor spooned in another serving of his mash, chewing it quickly. "He's been a detective for eight years. You recognize the name?"

Mary looked thoughtfully, then replied, "I'm sorry, dear, but it's not sounding familiar."

"About six months ago, the shooting in the police parking lot? It was all over the news." Trevor held back, allowing her to figure out the details on her own.

"Six months ago…oh, yes, I do remember. Starsky…" Mary's face finally lit up. "You mean the officer who was almost killed? He's your new partner?"

"Yeah. David's quite a guy. Still young, but seems to know his stuff."

Mary reached for her iced tea glass and took a swallow. After setting it back down, she said, "That shooting wasn't too long ago. Has he been back to work for very long?"

Trevor let out a quick chuckle. "I asked him the same question. He said about two weeks." He glanced over at her, then added, "I know what you're thinking, but I'm sure he was cleared medically, otherwise they wouldn't let him work full time again, especially out on the street."

"Well, that's good to hear. So what made him want to come and work at your precinct?"

"Now, that's one thing I didn't ask him," Trevor said, smiling. "But I'd be damn surprised if the captain didn't."

After taking a bite, Mary remarked, "You should invite him over for supper. Is he married?"

"No, he's single. Seems to be on the lookout, though. I know I caught a few women at the office giving him the once over, and he wasn't ignoring any of them."

"Just how young is he, Trev?" she asked, with a tone that suggested she might include herself with the other women.

"Too young for you, my dear." Trevor squinted at her with a look of admonition. "I think you've been watching too many of those daytime soaps on TV."

"Oh, well then, maybe you should join me sometime. You might learn something," she said, casting a loving smile.

"I guess I don't have to ask what's for dessert, do I?"

.

With two armfuls of groceries, Bree walked up to Starsky's front door and managed to open it. The man following behind her was just as encumbered with bags.

"Hey bro', I'm back," she called as she entered. Bree glanced over at the sofa and saw Starsky waking up. He still looked exhausted. "I brought over some company, I hope you don't mind."

Starsky had been dozing very comfortably, and the intrusion knocked him awake a bit more prematurely than he would have liked. As he pulled himself up on his elbows, he blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision enough to see who his uninvited guest was. The sight of the man caused him immediate apprehension.

Bree hurried into the kitchen so she could set the grocery bags down, then returned to her guest and relieved him of his load before leading him into the living room.

"David, this is Doctor Jonathon Peters. He's my boss."

Starsky glanced at the doctor, then gave a hard look at Bree.

Reaching his hand out to Starsky, Peters said, "Hi, glad to meet you. Breanna's told me a lot about you."

Reluctantly shaking his hand, Starsky replied curtly, "Yeah. I bet she has."

Bree returned her brother's stare. "I called him while I was at the store. He graciously agreed to come over here." Hesitating a moment, she added, "Don't worry, I told him you'd probably be a difficult patient."

With that, Bree went back to the kitchen and started unpacking the bags. Peters stepped around the sofa and sat down in the recliner. "Bree mentioned that you haven't been feeling well lately. Are you having a lot of pain?"

Starsky gingerly finished sitting up, and ran a hand through his hair. "Look, doc. I appreciate you comin' over," he said, "but my sister's obviously gotten you down here on false pretenses. I'm fine. Sorry you wasted your time."

"No, you're not fine!" Bree cried from the other room. Speaking to Peters, she said, "Don't let him fool you, Jonathon."

The doctor smiled at the display of sibling bickering, then turned his attention to Starsky. "I certainly don't want to impose myself on you, Mr. Starsky, and I'm sure you have your own physician. But from what your sister explained to me, I am concerned about your symptoms. If you could just allow me a few minutes, we may all possibly benefit."

"So help me, Davey, you'd better or I will call Mom!"

Starsky whipped his head around, "Hey! I _am_ the oldest, so don't tell me what to do!" He turned back to the doctor, and in a defeated tone admitted, "Look. She's right, but I know what the problem is. My doctor thinks its scar tissue, and by doing another surgery, he said I might feel better for a while, but it'll just come back again. I'm so sick of hospitals and people poking and prodding me like I was a lab rat, I'd rather just put up with the pain."

"I totally understand. But it's not a doctor's intention to cause patients any more discomfort than absolutely necessary. Is the scar tissue forming internally?"

"Yeah, that's what he seems to think. He said it happens as a result of healing. If this is what healing feels like, I'd rather be sick."

"Oh no, you wouldn't!" Bree yelled from behind the refrigerator door.

"Hey! Don't make me come in there!"

Breaking in, Peters said, "David, would you mind if I did a quick exam on you?"

"Do I have a choice?" Starsky put on a sour face. "Probably not, since I'm outnumbered," he grumbled. "Where do you want me?"

Dr. Peters reached down beside him and opened a small black bag. He pulled out a stethoscope, and looked over towards the kitchen. "How about you sit over at the table?"

Starsky got up and headed that way. He caught a glimpse of Bree's face, giving her a livid glare. She returned the expression with a smug smile and continued putting away the groceries. He dragged a chair out and sat down.

After listening to his heart and lungs, Dr. Peters examined Starsky's chest and back, paying close attention to his numerous scars and incisions.

"The bullet wound in your left shoulder, when did that happen?"

"I got that about two years ago." Starsky glanced at Bree, wondering what she would think at learning about his other brushes with death.

"I see." Finished with his exam on the back, Dr. Peters returned his attention to Starsky's chest. He gently touched some of the bullet wounds and pressed around the long scar over his heart. Noticing another entry wound and a scar down by Starsky's flank, he asked, "And what about these?"

"Those happened about a year ago. I got them at the same time as the one by my neck."

The doctor let out sigh and handed Starsky's shirt to him. "You can go ahead and put this back on." He slipped the stethoscope from his neck and pulled up a chair to sit down in. Finished with the groceries, Bree came over and sat down next to Starsky. Before Peters said another word, she placed a hand on David's shoulder, and gave him a soft squeeze.

"Just out of curiosity, how many times has someone in the medical profession told you how lucky you are?" Peters asked.

Without missing a beat, Starsky replied, "Lucky I'm still alive, or lucky in that I seem to attract flying metal objects?"

"I think in your case, both probably apply. Mr. Starsky—"

"Dave is fine."

"Okay, Dave. This last injury, how many surgeries were involved?"

"One…that I know of. When I first came in, at least that's what they told me."

Dr. Peters lifted an eyebrow. "That's interesting. And how long were you in ICU?"

Starsky shrugged his shoulders, then looked questioningly at Bree. "I don't really know, exactly. About two weeks?"

"It was closer to three," she said.

As the two siblings turned their attention back to the doctor, he said, "From what I can tell from your history and these incisions, with the proper surgeon I think most of the scar tissue that's causing you so much pain could be removed."

"Yeah, well, that's the same thing my doctor said. The problem is, it'll just all come back again, right?"

"Everyone is unique when it comes to how their bodies mend," Peters said. "In your case, judging from the way your incisions have healed, it doesn't look like you might be prone to developing a lot of scar tissue."

Starsky asked, "Then is my doctor wrong?"

"Don't misunderstand me. Everyone produces scar tissue, but I believe the majority of what you have came from undergoing emergency surgery." Seeing confusion on Starsky's face, Peters explained. "When tissue is recently injured, there can be a lot of bleeding and damage. Considering the number of times you were shot, I can imagine your surgery probably lasted for several hours, which isn't good for the tissue since it can start to dry out. That alone causes a significant amount of adhesions to form once it starts healing."

Starsky thought for a moment, then softly said, "So, even if you're right, I'd still have to have another operation."

Dr. Peters could see his suggestion wasn't going to be an easy sell. "In all likelihood, yes. But there are other things we can try first. It's not something you need to decide right away, but Bree mentioned to me that you're still taking Percocet?"

Although Starsky was tempted to give Bree another dirty look, he knew it wouldn't faze her. "I only take it when the pain gets really bad. I've got enough for another couple of days."

The doctor reached into his shirt pocket, and pulled out a small prescription pad. "Are you allergic to anything, Dave?" he said, as he laid the pad down on the table.

"No. At least nothing so far."

As he wrote on the pad, he said, "I'm giving you two medications. One is a muscle relaxant, the other is for pain."

"Am I gonna be able to take that and work at the same time?"

"Yes, you should be fine, but only take the muscle relaxant at night. Part of the problem with the pain you're having is it's causing your muscles to contract more than they should. This should ease that. The medication isn't as strong as the Percocet, but hopefully it won't need to be. Plus, this isn't as addicting."

As he finished filling out the prescription, Dr. Peters added, "I'm also going to give you the name of a colleague of mine, Doctor Raymond Phillips. He specializes in cases like yours, and I believe he's about the best out there. You can tell him that I referred you." He then handed the slip to Starsky. "Do you have any questions?"

Starsky studied the paper for a moment, then said, "No. Thanks, doc. I'll think about what you said."

The doctor stood and extended his hand to Starsky. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Dave. If you do think of anything, don't hesitate to call me. I'm sure Breanna can give you my number." Peters then addressed Bree. "And I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course, and thank you so much for coming over."

After seeing Peters out, Bree walked back to the table. Starsky was still gazing at the slip on the table, looking as though his mind was a million miles away. Bree sat down beside him, and placed a hand on his back.

"What're you thinking?" she asked.

Starsky pulled out of his daze, and let out a sigh. "I dunno. I've got two doctors telling me two different things. I'd give anything to get rid of this pain, but if I have to have another operation…I'd like to get some type of guarantee at least…" He leaned his head back, and looked at the ceiling. "This whole thing just sucks."

"Maybe you should go and see Dr. Phillips, he might have some good news," Bree said, bringing her hand up to his shoulder.

"Yeah, maybe."

"You know, compared to what you've been through, one more operation may not be as bad as you think." Bree had no idea of what it felt like having surgery, but hoped David would at least give it some serious consideration.

Starsky raised his hand and placed it on top of Bree's. "I haven't been through one yet that felt good," he quipped.

"Hey. I bet you're hungry," she said, to change the subject. "How 'bout I fix you a nice supper?"

Starsky wasn't that hungry, but rather than appear ungrateful, he said, "That'd be great."

.

An hour later, both siblings were back on the sofa, watching a black and white movie. When Starsky started to prop his feet up on his sister's lap, Bree almost shoved them off as she had done countless times when they were kids. But after giving him a sly look, she relented and allowed him to use her as a pillow.

Starsky had eaten more than he thought he could. It made him wonder if Bree's cooking was good enough to surpass Rachel's, or if he was just hungry enough to eat everything he wanted.

When he let out a belch, Bree turned her head and said, "Seems like my cooking ain't too bad, huh?"

"I think that's a fair statement." It was also an understatement. Since recovering from the shooting, Starsky hadn't been able to eat many of his favorite foods, especially the spicier ones. But somehow Bree was able to cook with enough seasoning to satisfy his craving for flavor and yet not cause his stomach to object.

When a commercial came on the TV, Bree said, "Davey?"

"Hmm?"

"Are you mad at me for bringing Jonathon over?"

Starsky didn't answer for a few moments, but then replied, "No. I'm not mad."

Bree shifted her position beside her brother until they were face to face. "Have you been doing okay?"

A surprised looked appeared on Starsky's face, then just as quickly turned into a smirk. "You've been talking to Hutch, haven't you?" he said flatly.

Not wanting to lie, Bree answered, "Yes, I have. He's worried about you, Davey."

"That's what he does best. Didn't you notice that when you two were an item?"

Bree felt herself bristle. "So, you're mad at him because he cares?" she shot out.

"Well, if I said I was, then that'd make me a pretty sorry son of a bitch, wouldn't it?"

"Are you?" Bree cringed as soon as the words left her. "Davey, I didn't mean…"

"The hell you didn't." He lifted his legs off of Bree's lap and started to get up from the couch.

Grabbing his arm and pulling him back down, Bree said, "Hey! I'm sorry. I just don't understand why you're kicking him out of your life."

"I'm not kicking him—"

When Starsky didn't finish, Bree said, "Davey…I don't understand you lately. I feel like I'm walking on eggshells whenever I talk to you." She let go of his arm. "I worried about you when you were like this after the kidnapping, but I didn't want to say anything to you back then. You'd gone through so much hell…" Bree got up and walked over to the bookcase, her eyes seeking out Terri's framed picture. "I blamed myself for a long time after that. I felt I didn't help you quick enough…that if I had only gotten to you sooner or made Hutch believe me…that you wouldn't have gotten hurt so bad…"

Starsky stood and went over to Bree. He couldn't let her think those things. None of what had happened to him was Bree's fault. As he placed both hands on her shoulders, he said, "Hey."

Bree quickly shifted out from under his hands, and turned to face him. "Davey…God only knows what that was like for you. I remember, at the hospital, how you looked at me when you said not to call Mom. I was so scared because you thought you were going to die and I couldn't do anything to change that or to try and convince you to fight." Bree intensified her stare. "Do you have any idea of what that's like? To see someone you love hurting so bad and wanting to give up?"

Starsky returned the gaze, and replied, "Yeah, I do."

"Then why are you doing that to me? And to Hutch?" Bree asked, enunciating every word.

"I…I can't explain it to you," Starsky said, turning away.

"Can't, or won't?" Bree snapped back.

He took a few steps towards the kitchen, then stopped. "I can't explain it because I have to work it out my own way."

"Your way? Was trying to commit suicide 'your way'?"

Starsky angrily turned around and glared at Bree. "I guess Hutch told you about that too!"

"Yeah, he told me. And before you say another word, you better listen. You were livid when you realized I purposely let that mob boss get a hold of me again. But if saving you meant I'd have to sacrifice my life, I was ready. But you, you were all set to blow your life away, and for what, Davey!? To leave your family and your partner heartbroken and spending the rest of our lives trying to figure out what we'd missed? Punishing ourselves because we couldn't read your mind!?"

"Bree, maybe you should leave."

"So that's your plan? Just kick everyone out of your life and things will get better?"

Starsky stared at Bree for a moment, then headed towards the kitchen. He stopped by the table and turning his head back slightly, said, "I can't…"

Bree remained still and watched him standing there, so obviously in turmoil. Whatever David's secret was, he wasn't ready to reveal it. As much as she wanted to reach inside of him and drag it out, she knew that wouldn't be possible, at least not tonight.

With a gentle sigh, she rose and walked past him into the kitchen where she grabbed her jacket and put it on. Before leaving, she paused and stood in front of David, trying to look deep enough into his eyes to catch a glimpse of the truth hiding behind them.

"I just want to help. I love you enough to leave you alone, and I love you enough to stay here and figure this out. You might think that whatever is tearing you up inside, nobody else can understand. Well, maybe that's true. But since you won't give anyone a chance, I guess you'll never know for sure."

Bree offered him a slight smile, then headed for the front door. As she opened it, she added, "I hope you know what you're doing, David. You need help…but you're just too stubborn to admit it." With that, she slipped out and closed the door behind her.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

.

Left alone, Starsky mentally kicked himself. As much as he wanted to deal with this privately, his efforts were hardly succeeding. He went back to the couch, debating whether to call it a night or finish watching the movie. He picked up a pillow, then, angrily threw it on the floor. With the confines of the apartment starting to close in, he marched over to the coat rack and snatched his jacket from it. Starsky glanced at the gun holster, then tore his attention away from it and went out the door. All he wanted to do was jump in the Torino and drive hard and fast enough to reach a different life—the life he'd had before Gunther, and Rothman, and so many others.

.

The next morning, Hutch stiffly dragged himself out of bed. He had already hit the snooze alarm three times, but the extra few minutes of shuteye weren't helping to revive him. As he shuffled to the kitchen, he thought about the phone conversation with Bree the night before. Nothing she'd told him seemed the least bit encouraging as far as Starsky's health was concerned, either physical or mental. Although he hadn't told her so, Hutch was disturbed that Bree had left Starsky while he'd been in such an unpredictable mood. Maybe she didn't know that Starsky could normally be read like a book, his actions as predictable as the sun rising and setting. But that was before an assassin raced past in a black and white patrol car, firing lead from a submachine gun.

_Face it, guy. He's not going to let you in this time. Quit beating yourself up worrying about him._

Hutch, running on automatic, went about fixing breakfast. He pulled the milk carton out of the fridge and poured the usual amount into the pitcher on the blender. Opening up various packages and containers of powdered mixes, he threw all the ingredients in with the milk and hit the puree button. Watching the whirling multi-colored lines blend together into a uniform shade, he thought about what his day at work would be like—everyone looking at him, knowing something was wrong, and wanting to know where his damn partner was.

_He's a big boy, but I can't just pretend nothing's going on. 'Family demands things, friends are supposed to care enough to never demand anything.' Yeah, I guess that sums it up, buddy. Have it your way then._

Hutch turned off the blender and poured the contents into a glass. He walked into the greenhouse and soaked up the warming rays of sunlight slipping in through the glass panes. The smell of rich potting soil and healthy flowering plants helped ease his mood, although only in part. Maybe he needed to transfer to another precinct, too. The thought of being out on the street where every alleyway and corner brought back memories of better times wasn't something he saw himself dealing with too easily.

Hutch finished drinking the milky mixture and, leaving the empty glass in the sink, grabbed his car keys and headed out the door.

.

"_Baker Four, come in please."_

Starsky grabbed the mike to answer the radio call, reminding himself not to say 'Zebra Three' again. He had already made that mistake twice today, and doing it a third time would certainly lead to unrelenting teasing from his new precinct buddies.

"Baker Four, go ahead."

"_Adam Five is requesting you at 509 Hillcrest concerning a 211 follow-up."_

"Copy, dispatch." Starsky glanced over at his partner, almost expecting to be congratulated for not screwing up. "Seems like someone is pretty bored. That's the second robbery call today," Starsky said, without enthusiasm. He wasn't looking forward to spending hours inside the office typing up the reports his senior partner would no doubt be requiring him to do.

"Yeah. You can always tell when it's getting close to the holidays. People start stealing more so they can afford Christmas presents," Trevor lamented.

Starsky let out a slight laugh, then felt the happiness disappear. Just last week he had already started shopping around for Hutch's present. He wondered what this year's Christmas was going to be like, with everything so unsettled.

The Granada pulled up in front of Lucky Jim's Quick Market, joining two black and whites parked there. Starsky got out of the passenger seat and glanced up at the sign mounted over the front entrance. _Guess this ain't Jim's lucky day._ He followed Trevor inside the store and approached the small band of cops and one civilian standing by the front counter. An odd feeling swept through Starsky as everyone's attention seemed to focus immediately on him.

"Pete, Henry," Trevor said, greeting two of the uniformed officers. "What 'cha got for us?"

Officer Pete Thomas looked at Starsky, then back at Trevor. "We got called here about twenty minutes ago. Mr. Woo," Thomas said, nodding towards the store owner, "says the suspect came up to the counter and pointed a gun—"

"Very _big_ gun!" Woo cut in, using his hands as if to demonstrate the size of a large fish that just got away.

"Yes, a very _big_ gun," Thomas continued, "and demanded all the money from the register. After giving him the cash, Mr. Woo says the man pulled out a note from his jacket and set it on the counter. He just smiled and took off out the front."

"Well, that's kind of unusual. What did the note say?" Trevor asked.

Thomas reached into his notebook and handed the folded paper to the detective. Trevor took it and pulled his reading glasses from out of his shirt pocket. While waiting, Starsky glanced over at Thomas, who shifted his gaze uncomfortably away. Feeling quite uneasy now, Starsky drew his attention to the note in Trevor's hands. As he glimpsed at his partner's face, Starsky was starting to sense this call had more to do with him than anything else.

"Here," Trevor said, looking frazzled as he handed the note to Starsky, "You should read this."

Starsky grabbed the item and read its message. When he'd finished, he understood why everyone was acting so funny. He warily glanced at Trevor, then studied the note again. The writing was almost childlike, but its meaning was far from it.

.

_**Detective Starsky,**_

**_Thought you could just forget your past and run away? Well,_**

**_think again asshole! I know what kind of coward you are, and_**

**_soon all of your new pals are going to know it, too. You better_**

**_watch your back, pig, because I'm not done with you._**

**_A Secret Admirer_**

**_._**

With a weak smile, Starsky handed the note back to Trevor. "Guess someone in my fan club doesn't like me," he said, curious to see how the others were taking his reaction.

After skimming through it one more time, Trevor folded the paper and stuck it inside of his jacket. "Got any ideas who wrote it?" he asked, looking at Starsky.

"Yeah, someone who could use a course in penmanship." Starsky hoped his real feelings weren't showing through the weak attempt at humor. Any number of people he knew could have written that garbage, but none who would have known he'd just started working at the Fifth. Although Starsky was ready to quit standing around and hit the street looking for whoever was responsible, Trevor hadn't moved an inch, his eyes still wanting an answer. For a moment, Starsky missed the friend who wouldn't have needed an explanation and would have been racing him back to the car.

"Whoever it is, I intend on making their acquaintance," Starsky said, hoping that would satisfy Trevor's curiosity. He then turned to the store owner. "Mr. Woo, did you get a good look at the person who robbed you?"

"I don't see his face too much. Was too scared looking at big gun!" Woo's eyes shot wide open.

"Terrific," Starsky mumbled, then looked back at Trevor, hoping he'd sense there wasn't much more the two could accomplish at the store.

Trevor held his gaze on Starsky for a moment, then addressed Thomas and said, "Finish whatever you need to. Get as good of a description from Mr. Woo as you can and leave your report in my box. We'll handle the case from here."

"Sure thing, Sarge," Thomas replied and gave Starsky one last momentary look.

The glance wasn't ignored, but as he turned to follow Trevor out of the store, Starsky noticed that Thomas wasn't the only officer studying him. He walked towards the door and made his way back to the car, feeling like some freak out of Ripley's Believe it or Not.

After Starsky radioed them clear of the call, Trevor drove for a few minutes, keeping quiet, his attention focused on the road. He couldn't help but notice Starsky's matching silence, which was in stark contrast to his earlier constant chatter. Trevor thought about the note's implications to both Starsky and himself. Throughout the years, he had received similar threats; it went with the job. But even though hazards like that were expected, and regularly received, it was still unnerving to get them. Added to that anxiety was when those threats involved a partner, and that made Starsky's problems his.

Seeing a drive-in restaurant, Trevor pulled into the lot and parked under an awning. Before taking a look at the billboard menu, he looked over at his partner.

"Feel like eating?" he asked.

"Huh, what?" Starsky seemed not to have noticed where they were, but after taking a quick glance around, replied, "Maybe just a soda…and a hot dog."

After giving their order to the waitress, Trevor leaned back in his seat and propped his arm out of the open window. With his hand resting on top of the roof, he started drumming his fingers on the metal surface, eventually gaining the attention of his pensive partner.

"I hear ya knocking," Starsky grumbled, keeping his gaze focused straight out the windshield.

"Yeah, well that's good to know. Thought I'd left you back at the market."

Starsky turned his head and gave Trevor a smirk, but offered nothing else. "Didn't you just tell me yesterday that we shouldn't be afraid to ask each other questions?" Trevor added, hoping Starsky would start showing a little trust.

"So what's your question?" Starsky knew what it was—he just didn't have an answer. When Trevor said nothing, Starsky gave in. "Okay, I don't know who wrote that piece of garbage. Could be any one of a number of flakes that don't like me. I'm just not sure who's keepin' up with me that well to know where I'm working now." As he let go of a sigh, Starsky softly muttered, "That part's got me a little concerned."

Trevor smiled a bit. Not because he thought anything Starsky had said was funny, but that the man felt comfortable enough to share his unease.

"You got any guesses at all?" Trevor asked.

After contemplating for a few seconds, Starsky said, "Maybe. One thing's been buggin' me though…"

"What?"

"I don't think the guy that left that note is the same one who wrote it."

Starsky's assumption surprised Trevor. "And how do you figure that?"

"Well, if he did write it, why take the chance of Woo seeing his face so he could identify him? This guy wants to keep me guessing, at least for now. I wouldn't be able to play his game if I found out who he was right off the bat."

"So if there's two people involved, wouldn't that narrow your list down a bit?" surmised Trevor.

"You'd think so," Starsky said, "But no, not really."

The arrival of the carhop with their food momentarily stopped the conversation. As he separated out the order, Trevor said, "After we finish, we'll head back to the office and run this by McMillan."

Starsky's stomach turned a little. There was no question a call like today's would have to be brought before the captain. But for someone trying to stay out of the limelight, he was failing miserably.

.

Hutch had so far managed to avoid any direct contact with Dobey, until now. The captain must have realized there was pattern to Hutch's timely exits from the squad room and adjusted the departure from his office to just the right moment to catch Hutch trying to escape him one more time.

"In my office now, Hutchinson…and don't tell me about needing to go to the john again. A three year old has better bladder control than that!"

Dejected, Hutch followed his superior inside and sat down in the first chair he found. He had expected this conversation all day, and wasn't looking forward to it.

Dobey sat down behind his desk and took a long hard look at his detective. He found himself thinking back to happier, if not easier times when his best team was together, uninjured and still full of fight. None of that description fit the man sitting in front of him now, and what Dobey had to say wasn't going to make anything better.

"Hutch, you know I've got to pair you up with someone. I can't let you or anybody else out on the street working solo." There was no reaction to his comments. Hutch sat perfectly still, eyes focused on some imaginary target on the front of Dobey's desk. Continuing, Dobey said, "Unless you have someone in mind, Simmons is taking a two week leave and Babcock could stand to have a partner. He'd probably be very grateful to you…it'll keep him from being stuck on desk duty."

Hutch finally looked up. In a flat tone, he said, "Whatever you say, Captain. Is that all you wanted me for?"

Dobey let out a heavy sigh. It was stupid to think this was going to be easy. "No, but something tells me you wouldn't listen to anything important I did have to say." Dobey paused. "You've got two choices, Hutch. Either accept what's happened and get on with your job, or talk your partner into coming back to work with you. In either case, it boils down to a personal decision, but I need you to make up your mind, and soon."

Dobey wanted to tell Hutch he'd do almost anything to keep the detective right where he was. But there was a limit as to how far the captain could bend. Rumors of him coddling the pair had been around for years, but their work results always eliminated any need for Dobey to justify his actions. Now, with Starsky gone, Dobey wasn't sure the other half of the team could still function the same. It wouldn't be an easy decision for Hutch—Dobey knew that better than anyone.

Hutch combed a hand through his hair. He didn't want to make a choice. How could he? This nightmare that had become his reality was succeeding in turning his world into something he couldn't recognize. And now Dobey expected him to make a decision as if he had a firm grasp on what was in his own best interest.

"Captain…working with Babcock will be fine with me."

Dobey did a mental double take. There were numerous answers he was prepared to hear, but that wasn't one of them. But Hutch's response had been free of verbal clutter, and sounded perfectly legitimate.

"Okay, fine," Dobey managed. "In the meantime, I'll see if I can find you a more permanent partner…if that's what you're leaning towards."

"I think the sooner the better." Hutch glanced up at the clock, and said, "If you don't mind, Captain, I need to take a few hours of comp time this afternoon."

"Go on, get out of here then. I'll see you tomorrow morning." Dobey sensed the man who stood and walked out of his office wasn't the same one that had entered a few minutes ago. But he would take Hutchinson in just about any form right now, even if he wasn't acting like himself.

As he left the office, Hutch felt as phony as the imposter who had just told his boss he'd be happy to accept a substitute for Starsky. Whoever that person was, Hutch didn't know, but he was glad they had intervened, gaining him more time. But his real life was still hovering nearby, its reality slowly but surely suffocating his ability to cope. He needed to get away—and fast—from Dobey, from the precinct…and from the ghost of Me and Thee.

The LTD's engine revved as Hutch stomped on the gas pedal. As he shifted the transmission into drive, the battered sedan kicked forward, leaving two matching rubber smears on the ground in the parking lot. Hutch knew where he wanted to steer the vehicle, but it was too early for Starsky to be off shift. Part of him wanted to grab hold of the prodigal partner and drown the man with a verbal flood of concern—enough to convince Starsky that his actions were childish at best and heart wrenching at worst. Another part wanted to tightly embrace his partner and beg him to reconsider so that Hutch could feel complete again. Since he could do neither, Hutch simply drove himself home.

After entering his apartment, he went straight to the fridge and yanked out two bottles of beer. After consuming the first in a few hurried gulps, he opened the second and slowly sipped the contents as if the bottle had to last the rest of the evening. In the hours that followed, Hutch emptied four more containers of their golden liquid, which left him very intoxicated and hardly able to stagger to the bathroom, much less drive over to Starsky's. As consciousness faded, Hutch stuffed a pillow under his head and stretched out his lanky frame on the unaccommodating couch.

.

Starsky knocked on the apartment door. He was glad to have seen the Mustang parked out front, indicating its owner was home. The only thing left to be determined was what her reaction to his visit would be.

The door opened halfway and Bree peered out at him, her expression perfectly blank. "Well, can I come in, or you gonna make me beg?" he asked, throwing her a sincere smile.

"Depends. What'd ya bring me?" Bree asked, studying the bulky item clasped in his hands.

Starsky dipped the paper grocery bag down towards her. "Everything you need for a batch of chili."

"Well," she said, drawing the word out, "I guess that'll buy you admission."

Bree opened the door all the way and Starsky came in. Although she didn't let it show, Bree was shocked at his unannounced visit. From the way their last conversation ended, she hadn't expected to see her brother again for a long time. Obviously, he had either changed his attitude, or something happened that he needed to talk about. Knowing her brother, Bree was betting it was the latter.

Starsky set the bag on the table and started to unpack its contents. Although she had fixed her special recipe a few times for him, Bree was pleased Starsky had remembered all the ingredients.

"I guess it's a good thing I didn't have other plans this evening," Bree said, as she began examining some of the cans.

Her comment caught Starsky unprepared and he instantly felt embarrassed. In his haste to get over to Bree's, he hadn't considered the possibility she might have had something else to do.

"Hey, I'm sorry," he said, taking the last item out of the bag. "I didn't even think to ask…"

Something about the sad look on his face told Bree there was more to his discomfort than just his showing up unannounced. She took the can of kidney beans from his hand and said, "That's okay; it was just a date with Humphrey Bogart. I'll catch him again some time."

Starsky smiled and then watched as she set the can down by the sink and pulled out a large pot from one of the cabinets. Finally feeling as if he could relax, Starsky took off his jacket and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair.

"Can I help with anything?" he asked.

"Sure. You can start chopping up the onions and green peppers," Bree replied.

"Great. Give the guy the hard stuff to do," Starsky mumbled, but he located the cutting board and started in on his task.

Half an hour later, Bree added the last of the spices into the steaming mixture, and turned the heat down so the chili could simmer. She grabbed her bottle of beer and joined Starsky who was sitting at the kitchen table. He'd been quiet for the last several minutes, and it wasn't hard to guess there was something on his mind. Bree wondered if David had seen Dr. Phillips and received some bad news, or if his nightly bout with pain was starting.

There was one thing for certain, though; this year couldn't end soon enough for both of them. While it had marked an important turning point in Bree's life, for Davey it certainly had to be one of his worst. She thought back to one particular day in May, and how that event had managed to affect so many lives.

_Making it through half the want ads, Bree put down the newspaper and got up from the table to refill her coffee cup. The usual morning dose of caffeine didn't seem to be working, and she was now on her third round. Last night had been horrible. She kept waking up, sometimes covered with sweat, feeling as if she just experienced a nightmare, but no details stuck in her memory. Once morning arrived, she shook off the restless sleep as just anxiety stemming from trying to find a place to live and a new job. For the last couple of months, she had earned her keep by staying at David's apartment and helping him recover from the injuries he had sustained at the hands of Benjamin Rothman. But David was back working full time now, and Bree wanted to start supporting herself. After pouring another cup of coffee, she was about to sit down and start in again on the classifieds when a knock at the door got her attention._

"_Are you Breanna Starsky?" the uniformed officer asked as he stood in the doorway with his partner._

_Shocked at seeing the police, Bree answered, "Yes, what's this about?" She didn't like the look emanating from the cop's eyes._

"_Detective Hutchinson asked us to come over here." There was an unsettling pause before the man continued. "Your brother was involved in an incident this morning and he's at Memorial Hospital. We're supposed to give you a ride over there."_

"_David's been hurt?!" Bree gasped. "How bad is it?!"_

"_We weren't given that information, ma'am," the officer lied. "I'm sorry, but if you're ready, we can leave right now."_

_Bree sat in stunned silence in the patrol car on the way to the hospital. Since Hutch hadn't come in person, there was no way Davey could have only minor injuries. She and Hutch had become very close in the past few months, and she knew he would be inseparable from her brother if David was badly hurt. Bree suddenly realized that Ken might also be injured, but the officer had only mentioned Davey. Maybe the two had been involved in an auto accident…oh God, it had taken a lot of money to fix the Torino up from the last time. "Shit, Bree—quit thinking about the damn car!"_

_The patrol car pulled up at the hospital and parked in front of the emergency entrance. After the officers got out and opened the door for Bree, the trio made their way into the building. Her stomach turned as they walked past a large crowd of police, all standing in the lobby with concerned looks plastered on their faces. Getting into an elevator, they rode up to the third floor. Once the doors opened, the patrolmen led her down a long hallway and past a few more officers standing in front of a large waiting room. Bree saw Hutch and Captain Dobey inside, sitting together on a vinyl padded couch. As soon as they saw her, they got up. Hutch rushed over and threw his arms around Bree, locking her in a tight embrace._

"_Ken, you're okay?" Bree managed, then separated from him slightly. "Where's Davey, Ken? Where is he?" she said, beginning to panic._

"_C'mon. Let's go out in the hall," Hutch replied. Bree stared into his eyes, dreading the message that lay hidden behind them. She glanced over at Dobey, and saw a pitiful look of sorrow floating in the brown depths of his eyes._

"_No!" Bree yelled. "You tell me right here, Hutch! Oh God—is he dead?" Bree grabbed a hold of his arms, trying to keep herself from falling as the strength in her legs began to give out._

_Hutch tightened his grip, and said, "No, Bree! He's not dead…he's in surgery, okay? They're operating on him, and he's…he's…" _

_Bree listened as his voice faded off. The panic inside her began to ease, finding itself replaced by the unwelcomed arrival of a sickening reality. "What happened, Ken?" she asked in a subdued tone._

_Flatly, he answered, "Starsky got shot…someone, someone at the police garage…they drove by and shot him," Hutch spat the last words out without looking at her._

"_How bad? How bad did he…" Bree couldn't finish. "Were you there?" she asked, starting to look closely at Hutch's body. He briefly closed his eyes and nodded. "And you're okay? You didn't get hurt?" Again, he nodded. Bree pulled away as an unsettling feeling began to emerge. Hutch seemed to sense the change also, and tried to take hold of her again. Refusing his attempt, Bree tersely said, "You were there, Hutch? You were there and you didn't protect him? How bad did he get shot?" _

_Before Hutch could answer, Dobey stepped up to Bree. Her last words were tinged in anger and the captain must have realized she needed to hear more of what had happened. "Breanna, Hutch tried but it happened too fast. A couple of hit men, dressed like police officers…they drove by in a squad car and just started firing. Starsky never had a chance."_

_Bree looked back at Hutch. "How bad is he hurt?" she demanded. _

_He had to know. The doctors must have told him about Starsky's condition before rushing him into emergency surgery. _

_Hutch took a deep breath. _

"_They said he was hit four times, mostly in the chest. His heart stopped beating on the way in, but they got it going again. He lost a lot of blood, and…" Hutch couldn't finish. _

_And Bree couldn't stay in the room any longer. She abruptly turned and dashed out into the hall, nearly elbowing two officers standing in the doorway. It was all just a bad dream. She was still asleep, with a warm and cozy blanket stretched over her, waiting for the first soft rays of sunlight to peek in beneath drawn curtains. The light would signal the start of another beautiful day, an ordinary day, with the promise of finding a new job and a new place to stay. It would…_

_It wasn't a dream._

_Halfway down the hallway, Bree stopped walking. The churning in her stomach gave her little warning and she threw up. She reached out and tried to grab the wall beside her, struggling to keep the blackness away. Vile reality descended on her as from an opened flood gate. As she slid down to the floor, she could vaguely hear Hutch calling her name._

"Bree? Hey, anybody home?"

Jolted out of her daydream, Bree heard Starsky's voice. "Oh, sorry 'bout that. Guess I stepped out for a bit."

"For a bit?" he mocked, "Seemed like you left the country."

"Ha, ha. Very funny." Bree took a long look at her brother, and marveled at the miracle sitting across from her. She wanted to lean over and give him the biggest hug she could, but he probably wouldn't understand why she'd do such a thing.

As she got up to go and check on the chili, David asked, "Bree…have you heard any more voices lately?" The question stopped her instantly. Before she could answer, Starsky added, "You know, like what you said happened before you came out here?"

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Season's Greetings everyone and Merry Christmas! Thanks to those who are following this story, and as a present to those who have asked, I'll be posting two chapters tomorrow. Enjoy!

.

Chapter 5

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Bree made it the last few shaky steps to the stove, running David's questions through her mind. This was the first time since being kidnapped by Rothman that he had even mentioned anything about her uncommon ability. She had assumed his silence on the topic stemmed from not wanting to think about those hellish days. But why ask now, almost a year later?

"I…uh, no, I haven't," she said hesitantly. "Are you talking about Terri, or just anybody?" As Bree stirred the chili, she looked back at David.

Starsky broke eye contact and glanced down at the floor. He'd been thinking about the note left for him at the store earlier that day, but Bree's mention of Terri sidetracked him.

"You've heard Terri say something?" he asked expectantly.

Bree turned the heat off and placed the lid back on the pot. "No. I haven't heard from her since…well, you know." She walked back to the table and sat down. Seeing the disappointment in David's eyes, she added, "It's not uncommon for that to happen. I think of it as them moving on to where they need to be—but I do miss her." She placed a hand on his arm. "I wished I could have met her in real life."

Starsky acknowledged her by nodding his head, then with a tightness in his voice said, "Anybody else, though?"

Not sure what he was really trying to ask, Bree replied, "I hear things all the time, Davey—mostly when I'm around a lot of people. Usually I just tune it out, unless something is said that gets my attention—it's kinda like when someone raises their voice so you can hear them. Why do you want to know?"

"I don't know…just making conversation."

Bree stared at him for a moment, knowing he was lying, then got up to get some bowls. Something had him concerned and she wished he would just admit it. But there was no use trying to drag it out of him. When it came to sensitive topics, David took his own sweet time, and as frustrating as it was to accept, she had no other choice. At least he was cracking open that heavily guarded door to his inner secrets, but at any time he could slam it shut again. Right now, Bree would take whatever he wanted to give. In this case, something truly was better than nothing.

After they finished eating, Bree cleared the dishes from the table, and began to search her cupboards for some Tupperware containers.

"How much of this do you want to take home with you?" she asked, pleased to see that David had eaten almost three full servings.

"Why don't you keep what you want and I'll take the rest."

Starsky was already in the living room, slipping his jacket on. Bree had watched him leave the table, and could tell he was moving a little stiffly. He did mention during dinner that he'd filled Doctor Peter's prescription, but maybe he hadn't taken the medication yet or was waiting to get home before downing the muscle relaxers. He also said he was still considering making an appointment with Doctor Phillips, but whether he would or not, she couldn't venture to guess. But he hadn't indicated a reason for his visit tonight nor offered any explanation for his sudden interest in her having contact from the spirit world.

Coming back into the kitchen, Starsky said, "Hey, that was a great dinner."

Spooning the last bit of chili into a container, Bree answered, "Well, it was my pleasure. Maybe next time you can bring over some T-bone steaks, huh?"

Starsky smiled and watched as Bree pressed the lid onto the bowl. He knew she would let him leave without explaining why he'd shown up, but even though he could easily do it, she deserved better.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry for yelling at you last night," he began. "I know you care about me…I know Hutch cares. But things have been hard lately, and I'm just not sure how to make it better yet." He reached inside his jacket and retrieved the car keys. "I'm not happy Hutch told you about what I did. I promised him I'd never let things get that bad again without talking to someone. It's the best I can do, Bree." Staring at her intensely, he admitted, "I may not always show it, but I'm glad you're here…and not just because you're a great cook."

Bree gave a slight smile and handed him the container. He was far from admitting the truth, but the door was still open. "Yeah, well, next time remember to bring those steaks, okay?"

"It's a deal." He reached out and folded his arms around her, giving Bree a tight hug. He held on for a long time, long enough for Bree to feel like a mother trying to comfort a hurting child.

Without another word, David ended the embrace and walked to the front door. Before heading outside, he gave her one last wink. Bree glanced at the clock on the stove. It was too late to call Hutch now. She'd have to do that in the morning.

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Hutch woke up groggily, immediately aware of the stiffness in his neck. The grayish light in the room indicated it was still very early in the morning. He sat up and let the dizziness settle before rising to his feet. The pounding of his brain against the back of his forehead left him in no doubt of his tentative existence as he shuffled into the bathroom, looking for relief inside of an aspirin bottle. Feeling too wiped out to go for his daily run, he turned on the water and stepped into the shower stall, staying there until his fingertips began to wrinkle.

After attending to the rest of his grooming, he moved to the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator and cabinets, looking for something that would suffice for breakfast. Finally throwing together some toast and a scrambled egg with tomatoes, he ate hurriedly, washing it down with some coffee.

Threading the LTD through traffic on the way to the precinct, Hutch tried to mentally prepare for the workday he wanted no part of. It wasn't that he objected to being paired with Babcock—the guy was probably the closest thing to a Starsky clone the department had—but Hutch had no idea what role he needed to play. Would he be the strong, silent type, denying any knowledge of why his partner transferred to a different precinct, or would he profess the truth, that Starsky had left because he didn't want anything to do with his old partner and precinct? It was like deciding whether to be the naive Hutch, or the pissed Hutch. Either way, there was only one outcome, which was 'you're just fucked, Hutch.'

Once at the building, he slowly made his way to the squad room, encountering only a few stray looks from other coworkers. Walking inside, he noticed Babcock sitting in his usual spot, flipping through a case file. The detective glanced up from his reading, and shot Hutch an acknowledging smile.

Putting the folder down, he said, "'Morning. I was just looking over this last case you and Starsky were working on…" Babcock saw a quick burst of anger from Hutch's eyes and felt like a kid who had just uttered the 'f' word for the first time in front of his mother. He scanned the report for the suspect's name and, barely skipping a beat, continued. "This Ronald Strickland guy, seems like he might be a likely suspect in this last homicide."

Hutch toned down his glare. He realized that Babcock's mentioning of Starsky was unintentional, and now the man seemed aware that the subject was off limits.

Without answering, Hutch went over to the coffee pot and poured himself a cup. He held it up towards Babcock, silently asking if he needed to bring over a second serving.

"No thanks," Babcock replied. "I've already had my two jugs for the day."

After taking a few sips, Hutch bypassed his desk and sat down in Simmons' chair. The simple act felt like a betrayal, but pretending as though Starsky's absence wasn't affecting anything had to start somewhere.

"I was wondering," Babcock said, still shuffling through the file's contents, "if you had a chance yet to talk to this gal, Flo. According to these other statements, she might have seen Strickland hanging around with the victim that night."

"Let me take a look at that." Hutch leaned across the desk and took the folder from his partner. Thumbing through the papers, he soon realized that Starsky hadn't written up his report of Flo Everett's statement, or if he did, it was never placed in the folder. "Damn," he softly murmured.

Babcock understood Hutch's frustration. Starsky's dislike of paperwork was common lore, so it was no surprise to him that the brunet had put off typing the statement.

"Well, I don't think it'll be hard to find her," Babcock said. "Why don't we make that our first priority? Besides, I'm already getting tired of being in the office." He pushed his chair back and stood up. As he grabbed his jacket, he looked at Hutch, hoping the blond wouldn't have any objections.

Hutch picked up on the cue and closed the file. He mimicked Babcock's actions and followed his partner out the door.

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Starsky lifted his head slightly from behind the opened folder and peered out across the room. He breathed a sigh of relief when it appeared he wasn't the center of attention anymore. Word must have spread fast about the note left at the robbery yesterday and he had been getting odd stares all morning. His furtive actions hadn't escaped his partner, though.

"Hey, Dave," Trevor murmured, getting the brunet's attention. "Want to go grab a cup downstairs?"

Starsky closed the file and laid it on the desk. He would have accepted an invitation to undergo a root canal if got him out of the office for awhile. As he left his desk and started to follow his partner out the door, they ran into Captain McMillan coming into the squad room.

"You two need to head out to the market on Pico and Vine," he began. "A patrol unit handling a 211 out there is requesting you specifically."

Trevor glanced at Starsky, then answered, "Sure, Captain. Can you let dispatch know we're on our way?"

The captain briefly eyed both men before saying, "Yeah. Let me know what you find out."

As they made their way out to the parking lot, Starsky turned to Trevor, and said, "Why do I get the feeling he already knows what we're gonna find?"

After arriving at the store, the two detectives got out of the Torino. Starsky felt good that it was his day to drive. The car made a clear statement to anyone who was looking for a piece of him. _Yeah, I'm here, and I'm not afraid of you. _Walking in the front door, he experienced a sense of déjà vu. Two uniform officers, standing by the front counter, instantly stopped talking to the female employee and watched as Starsky and Trevor approached them. As before, Trevor addressed one of the patrolmen and listened as he gave a brief recap of what happened during the robbery. When the officer handed Trevor a folded piece of paper, Starsky's stomach turned a little—obviously his secret admirer hadn't forgotten about him.

**_Detective Starsky,_**

**_I think it's time for everyone to see what a useless prick you  
are. You couldn't catch me where you were at, and now people  
are going to start paying for your stupidity. Just remember,  
cop, you're responsible for what's going to happen._**

**_Your worst nightmare_**

After reading the note, Starsky was tempted to just rip it up. He wanted to get the hell out of there, but he needed to know what his partner thought about this flake that seemed intent on making his life miserable. Trying to keep his frustration from showing, he quickly handed the paper back to his partner.

Trevor sighed, and tucked the note inside of his jacket. He asked the elderly employee a few more questions, but she couldn't provide any more useful information. Like Mr. Woo from the day before, the description she gave of the suspect could've matched half the male population in Bay City—middle thirties to early forties in age, height around five foot nine to six foot, hair color dark brown or black, eyes either hazel or light brown, and weight anywhere from about 150 to 200 pounds. The man had entered the store, come up to the cashier, and pulled a gun demanding money. After stuffing the bills into his pockets, he had left the note on the counter and walked out the front door.

Starsky listened to the description, then gave Trevor an irritated glare and headed out to the car. He didn't bother to look at the other cops; he knew what they were thinking. As he sat down on the Torino's hood, he was glad about one thing at least. The new medication Doctor Peters had prescribed seemed to be keeping his pain in check. Too bad everything in his life couldn't be fixed so easily.

After a few minutes, Trevor came out of the store and saw Starsky sitting on the car, looking like a kid who had just lost his bicycle. He walked over and lightly punched the brunet in the shoulder.

"C'mon, Curls. Let's go get some coffee."

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Hutch and Babcock had located Flo without too much difficulty, although she hadn't been as forthcoming with as many details compared to a few days ago when Starsky interviewed her. Leaving the less than cooperative witness to finish nursing her glass of bourbon, the two men left the bar and walked outside.

"Well, I bet her story's gonna change at least three more times before this case goes to trial," Babcock said, glancing around at the activity on the street. Not getting an acknowledgement from Hutch, he added, "How 'bout grabbing a bite to eat somewhere?"

"Huh? Oh, okay." Hutch had been mentally bouncing back and forth between thinking about Starsky and trying to remember the missing parts from Flo's story, but Babcock was probably correct. The woman definitely had a love affair with alcohol.

Once back in the car and on their way to the nearest burger joint, Babcock felt there was another topic they needed to discuss.

"Hey, Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"I don't know what's going on with you and Starsky, but I think it's affecting how you're doing your job."

Snapping his head over to his passenger, Hutch replied in a low tone, "You want to explain that one to me?"

The tempered reaction didn't surprise Babcock. "Sure. This whole morning you've been acting like your mind is anywhere but here. I ain't a rookie, Hutch, and I've known you since you first made detective. When Dobey said he was putting us together until Simmons got back, I was actually excited. You and Starsky do great work, and I'll admit I was looking forward to maybe learning a thing or two." Babcock turned his attention out the windshield for a moment, then looked back at Hutch. "What I'm saying is if you came to work, then let's work. If you can't keep your mind on the job, stay home, because that's where I plan on ending up every night."

Hutch shook off the effect of Babcock's words. Although he was tempted to tell his passenger where to go, his more rational side began reflecting on the truth in Babcock's comments. He was right; Hutch had no business being on the street, responsible for not only his life but also his partner's, if he couldn't stay focused. He thought back to a filthy alley and two armed suspects, with Starsky under fire, yelling Hutch's name in that particular tone he used when all hell was breaking loose. Only that time, Starsky was yelling _at_ him, not _for _him. Since then, Hutch had vowed to never put his partner, or any fellow officer, in that situation again.

"Okay, Babcock. Point taken," Hutch said sheepishly. Hopefully, this was the worst thing he'd have to experience until he could work out his personal problems with the only partner that would ever matter.

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Starsky and Trevor sat in a booth at Ruth's Diner, each slowly sipping iced Cokes while waiting for their orders to arrive. Since leaving the market, Trevor had limited his side of conversation to four or five word sentences. That was so it wouldn't seem like he was trying too hard to outdo Starsky's one word responses. Finally deciding he couldn't bear the lack of significant dialogue anymore, Trevor stared intently at Starsky until he had his attention.

"What?"

Brushing off the frustrated tone, Trevor said, "You know damn well 'what.' Talk to me."

Starsky slid his glass off to the side. "I'm all out of theories, if that's what you're looking for."

"Dave, obviously this guy is a real nutcase, but he's acting like he knows you…and almost too well. Are you sure you don't have any idea who this could be?"

Grateful that Trevor just provided a way for him to avoid answering truthfully, Starsky said, "So you're saying that flake is right about me, that I'm stupid?"

"If you honestly think that, then yes!" Before Trevor could say any more, their waitress arrived holding two plates of food in one hand and a variety of condiments in the other. After depositing everything on the table, she left the bill and hurried off to her next customer. Trevor grabbed his silverware and took a bite of the meatloaf in front of him. Looking back at Starsky, he said, "I want to get this guy, Dave, just as much as you do. I also want to think that you trust me." He paused for a moment, then added, "Whatever caused you to leave your old precinct is your business, but nobody could get me to believe it was because of any lack of courage or smarts on your part."

Starsky lifted his head and gave Trevor a grateful grin. Sometimes life wasn't very fair, but at least somebody was making sure he always had a good partner by his side. Maybe he needed to work harder at keeping this one around awhile.

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Hutch and Babcock arrived back at the precinct later that afternoon. As Babcock stopped at R&I to locate more information on some leads they had picked up, Hutch went on to the squad room so he could return a phone message.

As he sat at his desk and dialed the number, he took a glance around the empty room to see if his conversation would remain private. On the second ring, the call was answered.

"Doctor Peter's office; this is Bree. How may I help you?"

"Hey, Bree, it's Hutch. I got your message."

"Oh, hi. I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time, but I need to talk to you. Think we could meet somewhere this evening?"

"Does this concern your brother?" Hutch said flatly.

Bree wasn't sure how to interpret his tone. "Yeah, it does. I thought you'd want to know if I learned something, but maybe I misunderstood. I'm sorry I bothered you—"

"Wait! I do want to know. I didn't mean to sound like I wasn't interested. What time do you want to get together?"

"Any time after six would be fine."

"Okay. Tell you what…I'll throw in dinner. How about meeting me at The Blue Gill, around six-thirty?"

"My, that's pretty generous. Did you get a raise?"

"I wish. See you later."

"Okay. Bye."

Hutch felt relieved their conversation ended when it did because Babcock entered the room just as he hung the phone up. The detective gave Hutch a couple of file folders, along with a smirky grin that resembled the kind Starsky was inclined to make.

After taking a seat across the table, Babcock exclaimed, "Minnie hit the goldmine on our suspect. Seems like the guy we're looking for actually uses a different last name when he's not hanging around locally."

Flipping through some printouts inside the files, Hutch was starting to feel a long absent sensation that normally he only experienced with Starsky. It was the moment a cop realized he'd uncovered the one bit of evidence that guaranteed sending a criminal to prison. And since their suspect had murdered someone, the feeling was especially rewarding.

"This is great, Babcock. Your hunch really paid off."

"Yes, well…" Babcock brought his arm up and patted himself on the back, "I have my moments—but I wouldn't have thought twice about that chick's remark if you hadn't brought it up when you did." Babcock watched as a slight smile appeared on his partner's face. "You know, Hutch," he admitted, "this is what I thought it would be like with us two working _together_."

Hutch stopped glancing through the paperwork in his hands and acknowledged Babcock's compliment with a slight smile.

"Hey! How about we go and have a celebratory beer?" Babcock asked.

Taking a look at the clock, Hutch figured there was time to take him up on his offer and still meet Bree at the restaurant. Rising from his chair, Hutch said, "Sounds like a date. Who gets to buy?"

"I'll flip you for it when we get to the bar," Babcock conceded as he began to follow Hutch out the door.

.

Starsky pulled out a frozen TV dinner from the ice box. The idea of spending more than fifteen minutes to fix something to eat had long vanished since he became responsible for making his own meals again. Either Bree had sensed that while she was shopping at the grocery store, or she was afraid he wouldn't eat if he had to actually throw some stuff together and cook. He reminded himself to make good on her request for the steaks. After placing the aluminum tray in the oven, he also started to think about buying a microwave oven. Even if the things he'd heard about them shooting radiation into food were true, he'd still get to eat faster.

While waiting for old fashioned heat to cook his dinner, Starsky grabbed a soda and settled down on the couch. It had been another lousy day. For the second time, he had sat in McMillan's office, pulling flimsy answers from thin air while trying to avoid being seen as having no answers at all. Although he didn't like to admit it, Starsky had no idea who his secret admirer might be. On top of that, today's note carried a chilling reminder of the past—when Prudholm shot two cops trying to get to him. Starsky couldn't help but think this dirtbag might just do the same thing.

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

Season's Greetings and Merry Christmas Everyone! As promised, here are Chapters 6 and 7. I hope you all have a very nice holiday and a special thanks to my regular posters and readers. You've certainly made the effort worthwhile!

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Chapter 6

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Hutch stepped in the front door at the Blue Gill restaurant and glanced around the lobby. Not seeing Bree, he walked over to the adjoining cocktail lounge and took a seat at the bar. After ordering a draft beer, he kept an eye on the patrons coming up to the reservation desk. He didn't have to wait long.

When Bree appeared in the lobby, Hutch looked longingly at the silky figure that filled in the peach-colored chiffon dress. Although he intimately knew the soft and curvaceous body underneath the lightweight fabric, he had to remind himself that he no longer had visitation rights. He rose from the padded stool and went out to meet his guest.

Bree watched the tall blond stroll out of the bar. Hutch had that special smile on his face, the one which could always change her mood and make her say 'yes' when she needed to just say 'no.' He was dressed in a pair of fashionable khakis with a dark brown shirt and leather vest. The colors accentuated the golden-tinged hair and allowed the baby blues to sparkle right into her heart. _Careful, Bree. He broke your heart once; don't let him do it again. _

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," Bree said, still mentally enjoying the view standing in front of her.

"You look very nice," Hutch announced. Raising his glass of beer, he asked, "Would you like a drink?"

"Sure, but maybe we should get a table first?" Bree offered, recalling a few past dates where the two never made it out of the bar.

"After you," he replied, probably remembering the same outings.

An hour later, the couple was finishing up the single serving of chocolate raspberry cheesecake. The dinner had been wonderful, with no fighting or mind games being played. It reminded Bree of one of their first dates together, when their passion was fresh and new. She had kept her heart in check tonight, though, not wanting old desires to break free and convince her mind of feelings that weren't really there.

"That was a lovely dinner, Ken."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," he said. "Maybe we can do this again sometime." His voice rose, making it a question.

Surprised, Bree asked, "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"Forgetting what?"

Bree smirked a little. "The reasons why we _don't_ do this anymore. Remember?"

Hutch leaned back in his seat. "Oh, I remember, but the past doesn't always have to repeat itself, now, does it?"

"I think with us, that's a guarantee." Hutch frowned at her assessment. "Look, Ken, don't get me wrong. We had a lot of fun, but there was a lot of hurting each other mixed in."

"I guess if that's what you want to believe, I can't stop you."

Although tempted to refresh his memory, Bree decided against it. Since the night had gone so well, why spoil it by getting into an argument? And while Hutch hadn't mentioned anything about David yet, she felt it was time the evening took on a different agenda.

"You still interested in your partner?" she asked.

"Have you ever known me not to be?" Before she could answer, he said, "What did you find out?"

"David came over last night—" Bree stopped, taking in Hutch's expression. "Yeah, I was surprised, too. He brought some stuff for dinner, so he ended up staying for a while. What was interesting was he asked if I had been hearing any 'voices' lately."

"Starsky asked you that?" Hutch seemed even more amazed.

"Yes. He wasn't specific, but I think he wanted to know if maybe something was going to happen to him. Something bad."

Hutch looked thoughtful for a moment, then replied, "Bree, was there anything…I mean, did you hear something before…before the shooting?"

Bree almost snapped at him for asking that. A few months ago, she would have, thinking he was blaming her. But now she tried looking at the question from a different perspective. "No, I didn't. I've always wondered why. You'd think with something like that…"

When her gaze fell to the table, Hutch reached across, and laid his hand on top of hers. "Hey. I wasn't trying to say you should have known; you believe me, don't you?"

Bree nodded. "Yeah, I do." She let go of a sigh, then said, "Anyway, the way David was acting last night, I'm positive something's going on that's got him scared."

"Did he say anything else?"

"Not really. It was something in his voice and the way he looked at me. He did apologize for the other night. He said that he knows you care about him—but he's hurting Ken, and not just physically."

Hutch pulled his hand back and clasped it together with the other, intertwining his fingers. "Well, I don't know what I can do anymore, Bree. He walked out on me, and I don't think he wants to hear anything I have to say."

"So you're just going to give up?" Bree shot back, losing her temper in spite of herself.

"No, that's _not_ what I said," Hutch replied tersely. He took a deep breath to compose himself. "I'd give anything if that stubborn brother of yours _would_ talk to me, but he's decided to do this on his own. Believe me, it hurts. But you're his best shot right now…at least he's coming to you."

Bree could tell the last words were hard for him to say. "Okay. I'll do my best, but eventually he's going to need you. I'm not a cop, Ken. I don't know what it's like to go out there and do what you do. That's something only the two of you can understand." She picked up her purse from the table. "I think I need to be heading back home. Thank you again for dinner. Maybe we _could _do this again."

Hutch rose from his chair and offered a hand to Bree to help her up. _Damn, there's that smile again._

_._

Entering the detective's squad room, Starsky ignored the head turns and glances from people as he went over to his desk. The attention focused on him today, though, was probably not entirely due to the love notes he'd been getting. While trying to get some sleep the previous night, Starsky could have sworn he was back in the hospital. He had woken up every couple of hours, and then spent the next half hour or more trying to fall back to sleep. But it wasn't the pain in his chest causing the problem, it was the recurring nightmares of officers being shot dead because of him that wouldn't leave his conscience. As a result, he looked and felt like shit. And while he'd located his best pair of blue jeans and accompanied them with a nice shirt, compared to the rest of his coworkers, Starsky probably looked more like a janitor working at the precinct than a detective.

"'Morning," he muttered to Trevor as he sat down across from the man.

"Good morning, yourself." Trevor gave Starsky a cursory inspection. "Boy, I'd like to know which city bus ran over you."

Starsky snickered. "I dunno. I think it was the midnight express. Or it could have been the two o'clock or four o'clock express. They all started to look the same after a while."

Watching Starsky using a hand to massage his eyes, Trevor asked, "Had any coffee yet?"

"No, probably could use a cup or two."

"C'mon, then. Let's go downstairs and see if we can put a tiger in your tank."

_A tiger in my tank? No, thank you; it's plenty upset as it is._

_._

After sipping down half a cup of coffee, Starsky at least felt better, but he doubted if his looks had improved. He eyed the cinnamon roll sitting on the table, and wondered why he wasn't lusting after it.

"You want it?" Trevor asked.

"No, thanks," Starsky said, somewhat embarrassed at being caught ogling the pastry.

"I think that's the first time I've seen you turn down free food," Trevor remarked. "Now I know for sure something's wrong with you."

Showing half of a smile, Starsky answered, "I'm okay, just not very hungry right now."

"Well, I hope that changes by tonight." Seeing a questioning look on Starsky's face, Trevor said, "Mary is cooking one of her special dishes, and she wanted me to ask you over for supper. I know it's short notice, but you'd be doing _both_ of us a favor if you'd come…if you know what I mean."

"I think so. If momma ain't happy, ain't nobody happy, right?"

"Exactly. Are you sure you haven't been married before?" Trevor quipped.

That put a bigger smile on Starsky's face. "No, but I think I've been around women enough to know what makes 'em happy. I'd be glad to come. What time?"

"Mary's learned to be flexible, but we usually try to eat around six. You're welcome to follow me home after work."

Starsky was tempted to tell Trevor he'd meet him at his house, so he could go home first and take a pain pill. But lately, the drug had been working well enough that he could probably put off taking one for a few extra hours. "Sure. It's a date."

Before Trevor had a chance to say anything else, a pair of uniform officers sitting at a nearby table, suddenly sprang from their seats. Catching the attention of one, Trevor asked, "Hey, what's the call?"

"Dispatch has a report of someone firing at officers—Hillcrest and Market."

Starsky looked at Trevor. Then, without a word, he shot from his chair and bolted for the parking lot, with Trevor right behind. The cinnamon bun was left untouched.

.

Ten minutes later, the Granada pulled up behind a patrol car near the call's location. Starsky and Trevor jumped out and joined two uniform officers who were crouched down along the passenger side of their cruiser. About fifty feet in front of them sat another patrol car with both front doors opened and an officer lying motionless near the front fender. His partner was sitting on the ground, leaning against one of the rear wheels. Wounded, he had one arm cradled up against his chest, obviously in no position to defend himself.

Addressing one of the cops beside him, Trevor asked, "What's going on!?" He had to yell in order to be heard above the siren of another responding patrol car.

The officer pointed to the roof of a building across the street. "Someone with a rifle. We were backing up Adam Nine on a robbery call at the pawn shop. As soon as we got out of the car, he started firing. Huffman's hit," he said, nodding over to the officer sitting behind the patrol car, "Tully…he hasn't moved since you got here."

"You said you got called to a robbery?" Starsky asked.

"Yeah. But the store ain't even open."

"Shit!"

Trevor turned his attention to Starsky. "What is it?"

"I'll explain later." Starsky peeked over the hood of the patrol car and sized up the distance between him and the wounded officers. He then looked towards the three-story building where the sniper held the advantage of higher ground. Turning toward the uniformed officers beside him, he said, "When I'm ready, I need you to cover me."

"David! You're not fixing to do what I think you are, are you?" scolded Trevor. "That's plain suicide! You keep your ass right here until SWAT arrives!"

"Hey! By then you're gonna have two dead cops!" Starsky gazed beseechingly at his partner. In a quieter voice, he said, "I can do this, Trev. I just need you to cover me, okay?"

Trevor shook his head, defeated. "I hope those feet of yours can really fly," he mumbled.

Starsky pulled his Beretta out and chambered a round. Giving Trevor a nod, he turned to the other two officers. "On my signal. Ready?"

"Now!"

The street erupted with gunfire, both from the ground and the roof across the street. Starsky felt at least one round whiz past him to kick up a small pillar of dust at his feet. He dove the last few yards and hit the car's back tire like a bowling ball looking for a spare, ending up right beside the wounded officer. Both men ducked their heads as two last rounds hit the trunk just above them.

"How're we doin?" he asked the cop curled up beside him.

The young man unfolded his body slightly. "Got hit in my arm. It hurts like hell."

"Yeah, I know. Here, let me take a look." Starsky gently moved the hand covering the bullet wound. "It's not bad. You'll be doing cartwheels by next week."

"How's my partner? Can you see?"

Starsky looked over at the officer lying on the ground a short distance away. "I don't know," he said frankly. "Don't worry, we're gonna get both of you out of here." Starsky hopped over him and scanned around the rear of the patrol car, trying to find the nearest cover. Disappointed at not finding anything closer than where he just came from, Starsky looked back at Trevor. He pointed to himself and the officer and then over towards the Granada. Starsky hoped his partner understood what he wanted to do. "What's your name?" he asked the cop.

"Riley. James Riley."

"Well, James Riley, you ready to get the hell outta here?"

"Anytime you are."

While keeping crouched behind the car, Starsky helped Riley get to his feet. He then signaled to Trevor, and counted to three. Dodging gunfire again, he half-ran, half-dragged the officer back to the relative safety behind the Ford. From there, Riley was taken by other officers to a waiting ambulance, while Starsky scrambled back over to Trevor.

"Ready to go get the bad guy?" Starsky asked.

Trevor looked at his partner as if he'd gone completely crazy. "No! This time you're staying put. You got to play hero, now just wait until special teams get here."

"Look, partner. I'm going up to that roof," Starsky said calmly. "Now, it'll be a whole lot easier with you backin' me up. But one way or the other, I'm gonna do what I have to do."

For a moment, Trevor heard a different voice speaking to him, using those same words. A long repressed memory began to seep in, but then quickly receded.

Shaking off the recollection, Trevor yelled, "Damn it, David! You got a death wish? So help me—" Not seeing any change in Starsky's demeanor, he felt himself relenting. "Starsky?"

"Huh?"

"We gotta talk after all this is over."

And with that, under the cover of gunfire, both detectives dashed across the street to the building's front entrance. Starsky led the way inside and together they made their way up the staircase to the roof. Busting through the access door, Starsky kept low and Trevor stayed high. Working their way around to where the sniper was last seen, the air stayed quiet except for the sound of more approaching sirens. At last they found where the gunman had stood, empty rifle cartridges the only evidence marking the spot. Starsky cursed out loud at not finding the felon, but silently breathed a huge sigh of relief at what else they didn't find—namely an empty rifle and a note with his name written on it in big, bold letters.

Trevor sat down on a nearby metal vent, finally able to catch his breath. "Guess he must have used a fire escape somewhere," he said, taking off his jacket.

"Huh?" Starsky asked, still looking at the shells littering the roof top.

"I said…oh forget it. David, what's going on? You were taking off after this guy like a man possessed. Now level with me!"

Starsky holstered his gun and went to sit down next to Trevor. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together with his elbows on his thighs. "Before I left my old precinct," he began, "some nutcase was calling in bogus robbery calls and then shooting at the first officers who showed up. I think whoever was up here might be the same guy."

"So he's a cop killer, then?"

Shrugging his shoulders, Starsky said, "I guess he is now. He never hit anyone before."

Trevor thought for a moment. "You think this flake could be your pen pal?" he wondered.

A sickening thought ran through Starsky. "God, I hope not."

The sound of the access door opening drew both men's attention. An officer emerged onto the roof, his gun drawn until he spotted the detectives.

"Sergeant Woods! Did you see the sniper?"

"No, we didn't." Trevor replied. "How's Riley doing, any word?"

"Haven't heard anything from the hospital, but the ambulance just took Tully away. They think he's going to make it."

Trevor turned back to Starsky. The look of relief on the brunet's face was blatant. He lifted a hand and laid it on Starsky's shoulder. "Well, hero, time to go back to the office and start writing your report."

Starsky's happiness instantly disappeared. He could see Trevor using this tactic to keep him from getting too adventurous. As they got up to leave, Starsky went over and collected the rifle shells as evidence. When he straightened up, a sudden muscle spasm erupted in his side, bad enough to make him stop and catch his breath. Luckily, Trevor had already left, so he didn't see Starsky take a seat and wrap both arms around his chest. Feeling a tender spot under his left hand, he opened his shirt to take a look. A red, swollen patch marked the area where his side had impacted with the patrol car's tire. With the adrenaline leaving his system, he was suddenly and painfully aware of the results of his ungraceful dive. Starsky took a few deep breaths and sucked up the hurt. He buttoned his shirt and gingerly made his way off of the roof and back down to the street.

.

Under a big umbrella at Joe's Burgers, Hutch sat at a table watching Babcock standing in line at the order window. It was a very pleasant day, and every now and then, he could smell whiffs of salty air from the ocean just a block and a half away. He thought about his date with Bree and how the two of them seemed to have had a nice time in spite of their failed relationship. Although their short, but intimate time together hadn't been all bad, theoretically it could be added to the list of things that Gunther's bullets had permanently damaged.

The first visible mark occurred when Bree arrived at the hospital while Starsky was still in surgery. While Hutch had dismissed her accusation of him failing to protect her brother as just a shocked response, it was what she didn't say, but clearly meant, that hurt the most. There wasn't a scratch or drop of blood on him. Starsky, on the other hand, had lost nearly a third of his blood volume. Hutch had no excuse other than fate putting him on the sheltered side of the Torino. But he never told Bree of the guilt he felt—for not getting the shooter, for diving to the ground like a coward when Starsky had stayed standing, and yes, for not shedding a single drop of blood. The passing of time had eased that guilt a little, but not entirely.

He remembered a conversation with Starsky, around the second week he was in the hospital. During a lucid moment, his partner asked him if he was okay. Hutch knew Starsky meant in a physical sense, and his performance in answering should've won an Oscar. Seeing the relief on Starsky's face was extremely satisfying. But if Hutch had been honest, he would've said that he, too, was hurting. Not from any physical injuries—at least those kind of wounds healed eventually—just mental ones.

So Hutch had kept silent, essentially, both times and with both Starskys. The verdict on whether he did the right thing was still up in the air, though. In one sense, Bree was right—he hadn't protected her brother, and the reason Starsky had left stemmed from the fact that he couldn't count on Hutch anymore. On the other hand, Bree's accusation could've been nothing more than the result of overwrought emotion, and Starsky would _never_ accuse Hutch of not backing him up. Seeing Babcock coming over with their food, Hutch let his thoughts go for now. The truth lay somewhere, but did he really want to find it?

After finishing their meal and leaving Joe's, Hutch and Babcock were headed over to see Huggy when dispatch called them.

"_Zebra Three, come in please."_

Babcock glanced over at Hutch. "Don't they know we're off in fifteen minutes?" he grumbled as he grabbed the mike.

Hutch found himself chuckling. If not for a few different physical characteristics, the man sitting beside him could have been Starsky's twin.

"This is Zebra Three, go ahead."

"_Captain Dobey wants to see you as soon as possible."_

Turning to Hutch, Babcock said, "Great. Doesn't _he_ know we're almost off duty?"

"You late for a date or something, Bab?" teased Hutch.

"Hey! I told you before, don't call me that!" Babcock responded, sounding almost serious.

Hutch couldn't resist. "Well, that only leaves…"

"Shut up!" Pressing the mike button, Babcock said, "Copy dispatch." He placed the receiver back on the radio. "So, what do you think we did wrong this time?"

"We? I seem to remember you were the one who handled those last two calls."

"Oh, so now you're gonna bail on me? You're a fine partner."

A smile lit on Hutch's face. Working with someone besides Starsky was turning out to be less of a traumatic event than he'd feared. Maybe a break from his past was what he needed. But to be sure, he needed to stop comparing his present partner with his former one. _Don't know if I could ever do that, buddy. You're just too close to me…even if you don't feel that way anymore._

_._

"Come on in and have a seat," Dobey said, addressing the two detectives standing in his doorway.

Babcock and Hutch entered the office and each sat down in chairs facing the captain's desk. Hutch wasn't sure what to make of the tight expression on Dobey's face, but he was definitely concentrating on Hutch instead of Babcock.

"I got a phone call from Captain McMillan a little while ago. He heads up the detective division over at the Fifth."

A shock wave instantly raced through Hutch. Every nerve tightened in his body as he braced for bad news.

Continuing, Dobey said, "Earlier today he had two officers shot and wounded after responding to a bogus robbery call…sound familiar?"

Babcock and Hutch turned to look at one another. Hutch quickly returned his attention to Dobey. "Who were the officers?" he asked, barely keeping his voice level.

Dobey gave him a reassuring look and ran an index finger down the report. "The names were James Riley and Tully McGrew. Now, Hutch, you and Starsky were involved in at least two of those calls, so as of tomorrow, I'm reassigning Babcock and you to Captain McMillan's command. It seems our sniper has changed location. Not only that, he's gotten better at his marksmanship."

"Pardon me, Capt'n, but if there was only this one incident, what makes you think he's left our precinct for good now?" Babcock asked.

Dobey picked up another sheet off of his desk, and after glancing at it, handed it to Hutch. "A few hours after that call, McMillan received a note that was delivered anonymously to his office. Apparently, this isn't the first one of these he's received."

Hutch took the paper and holding it so Babcock could see, read its message.

**_Detective Starsky,_**

**_I told you things would start happening. So, asshole, how  
does it feel to have someone catch a bullet again because  
you can't even think your way out of a paper bag? Just  
admit to everyone you're a fucking failure and turn in your  
badge, or I promise you, more cops are going to suffer._**

**_You know who_**

The room remained silent for a moment. As Hutch lifted his head, Dobey anticipated his first question.

"It's not Prudholm," he said. "He's been in the prison infirmary for over a week now."

Hutch stared back at the sheet, then asked, "There's been more of these?"

Dobey's shoulders lifted as he leaned forward in his seat. "Two others, within the past couple of days. Starsky's not aware of this one yet. Captain McMillan's going to tell him when he comes on duty tomorrow."

Hutch tossed the paper on the desk. A lot of what Bree had said of Starsky's behavior lately suddenly made sense. At the same time, Hutch felt a tear go through his heart. His friend was, once again, the object of someone's demented attention. But instead of hearing it first hand, Hutch was one of the last to know.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

.

Starsky sat in the passenger seat of Trevor's car, taking in the scenery as the vehicle threaded its way up into the foothills east of the city. When Trevor offered to give him a lift, Starsky didn't hesitate. The pain in his side was continuing to flare up, and he thought the reprieve from driving would help him ride out the ache until he got back home. Besides, from the way Trevor had spoken, all that was required of Starsky once he got there was just to sit back, relax and have a good meal. Thoughts of the two officers hurt earlier still crossed his mind, but he was glad they were alive and recuperating at the hospital. However, he couldn't shake the unsettling possibility that the Prudholm incident wasn't repeating itself.

As the Granada finally reached the end of a cul-de-sac and pulled into the driveway, Starsky was impressed by the elegant house that sat in front of him.

"You been takin' some bribe money there, partner?" Starsky jokingly asked as he slipped out of the car.

Trevor smiled shyly as he closed his door. "Let's just say that the little woman has a say in all my vices."

"Well, that'll do it." Starsky chuckled.

They walked to the front door and entered the house. Starsky was instantly taken by the open design of the living room. Off to one side, there was a large fireplace, made of rectangular rock pieces that slowly tapered up to the cathedral ceiling. The mounted head of an antlered deer hung high over the mantle. There was a leather upholstered couch and love seat nearby, along with a dark blue recliner. Two Native American rugs lay on the wood paneled floor and the spacious area was naturally lit by four large picture windows lining the opposite side of the room. Taking in the view through them, Starsky could see Bay City down in the valley below through a wide gap in the surrounding hills.

As Starsky turned his attention towards the kitchen, a small-statured woman wearing a flower-patterned dress came out, hastily wiping her hands on the apron tied around her waist.

"You must be Dave. I'm Mary Woods," she said, reaching out her hand. "I'm so glad you were able to come tonight."

Starsky took her hand. "Nice to meet you. Trevor talks about you all the time."

"Oh, I'm sure he does." Mary glanced over at her husband. "I bet he even says something nice every once and awhile."

"Now, dear, let's not get carried away. You know I love you."

"Of course I do, but that's not what you say when I ask you to take out the garbage."

Starsky could feel himself grinning. He could see why Trevor always seemed so content at work. With a woman like her to come home to every night, who wouldn't be?

"Can I get you something to drink?" Trevor asked Starsky. "A beer? Soda? I think we might even have some wine."

"A beer would be nice," Starsky said.

"Coming right up."

Starsky watched as Trevor went into the kitchen. "Why don't you have a seat, Dave," Mary said, pointing towards the couch. "Can I take your jacket?"

He started to slip his coat off then realized he still had his holster on.

Mary saw the look on Starsky's face and knew why he might be hesitating. "It's alright. I can hang up your gun, too." Seeing her guest relax, Mary added, "I'm not a stranger to firearms. Trevor taught me how to shoot many years ago. He doesn't let me handle one much anymore, though."

"Oh?" Starsky said, tentatively handing her the holster together with his jacket.

"Yeah, when I kept outshooting him, he started taking it personal." Mary gave Starsky a wink, then headed off to hang up his items in the closet by the front door.

Starsky went over to the couch and gratefully sat down. The day's events and his aching body were slowly taking their toll. But the only demands left were to just have a relaxing evening, eat some good home cooking, and hopefully put any thoughts of work completely out of his head.

"I hope you like pot roast," Mary said, as she sat down in the recliner.

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you'd spoken to my mother recently. I love pot roast."

Trevor returned from the kitchen with two beers. Giving one to Starsky, he asked, "Do you drink it straight, or from a glass?"

"Straight will do."

Trevor took a seat beside Starsky. "That roast smells awful good, Mother."

"It should. I've been slaving away on it all afternoon. And I hope you brought your appetite with you, Dave. I hate putting away leftovers."

Starsky finished swallowing a sip of his beer. "Oh, I don't think you have to worry about that. I can't remember the last time I had a pot roast dinner."

Actually, he could. A week after he had gotten home from the hospital, Bree had fixed him his favorite meal. Although the pain medication had kept his appetite depressed, he'd still tried to eat a normal serving, only to lose it half an hour later. Starsky had felt sorrier for his sister than for himself. But Bree had understood and carefully wrapped smaller sized portions of the meal for the freezer, insuring a complete dinner anytime Starsky felt like eating one. That didn't happen for two more weeks, but by then Starsky had dropped another five pounds.

"So, David, do you live by yourself?" Mary asked.

Before Starsky could answer, Trevor remarked, "Mary, why can't you wait until he's at least seated at the table before asking him something personal?"

"That wasn't a personal question," she said, trying to sound innocent. "I was just being social."

Trevor turned to Starsky. "Don't let her fool you. She's a good actress. I think it's because she watches too many soap operas on TV."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Mary groaned.

Starsky let out a snicker. "I don't mind you asking. Yeah, I live by myself."

"And what about a girlfriend? You must have…"

"Mary!" interrupted Trevor.

"Oh, Trevor!" Mary looked at Starsky. "I'm sorry, Dave. I guess my husband would prefer that I ask you about your thoughts on world peace."

Grinning widely, Starsky said, "Well, it's not every day I get to be the interrogatee. No, I'm not seeing anybody at the moment."

"Ah, someone as handsome as you, not even married yet? What's wrong with today's women?"

"Mother…" Trevor softly gritted under his breath.

Without thinking, and not wanting to sound like a total recluse, Starsky said, "I was engaged once…" He paused, with the aching realization that he had to finish. "She was…she died," he managed then dropped his gaze to the floor.

Mary briefly looked at Trevor. Turning her attention back to Starsky, she said "I'm so sorry to hear that, Dave." Embarrassed now by her questions, Mary announced, "Well, I think that roast is probably done. Why don't you boys go sit at the table?"

As she went to the kitchen, Trevor and Starsky headed over to the dining room—the pain in Starsky's side now accompanied by the ache in his heart.

.

Hutch finished rinsing off the last dish and placed it in the holder by the sink. He went over to the fridge and took out the third beer for the night. After opening it, he settled down on his couch, staring vacantly at the empty apartment.

Thinking about Starsky, he felt torn between compassion for the man he still considered a friend and the hurt of knowing that same person wasn't even calling him anymore. He doubted that Starsky hated him, but he sure couldn't say where he ranked in the man's life anymore. As he sat in the quiet room, Hutch gradually convinced himself of one thing. He had a job to do. The fact that he was closely acquainted with the victim couldn't be allowed to interfere with treating the case like any other. Stuffing his reservations into a place buried deep inside his mind, Hutch reflected on what the suspect's note had said. Something about the wording in it seemed eerily familiar.

.

Dinner with the Woods had progressed nicely through to dessert. Unfortunately, Starsky had only been able to eat a small portion of the delicious meal. The pain in his body was getting worse, and he was afraid that the nausea he'd been forcing down would erupt at any moment. He was starting to sweat and knew he couldn't hold out too much longer. As Starsky struggled to think of something to say, Mary saved him the trouble.

"Dave? Are you not feeling well?"

Grateful for the intervention, Starsky tried to downplay his condition. "I've just had a stomach ache all day, that's all. Dinner was really great, but I think maybe I should start heading home." Starsky cut his last sentence short. He was struggling hard to keep the stabbing pain in his chest from becoming noticeable.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." Mary stood and gathered the empty dishes. "I can fix you up a plate to take home with you, if you'd like."

Not wanting to appear like he was in a hurry, Starsky said, "Sure, that'd be wonderful."

"Well, we enjoyed having you over," Trevor exclaimed as he got up. "I'll go grab our jackets."

Starsky braced himself before trying to stand, but it didn't work. Just as he got up, his muscles seized and he dropped down hard in his seat, inadvertently knocking a water glass onto the floor. Trevor was at his side in an instant.

"What's the matter!" he exclaimed, noticing for the first time how clammy Starsky looked.

As Mary came dashing out of the kitchen, Starsky said, "I'm fine, really. Just the stomach flu or something." He couldn't help but cradle his side.

Turning to Trevor, Mary said, "Let's have him lay down in the spare bedroom." Starsky started to object, but Mary overrode him, saying, "Dave, whatever you have, it isn't the stomach flu."

Trevor raised his hands in a helpless gesture. "Can't argue with her. She was an Army nurse in Korea."

"The couch…" Starsky said with a slight grimace, "would be fine."

"Nonsense!" Mary replied. "Why would I have you lay down on the couch when there's a perfectly good bed? Now, let us help you."

The couple got Starsky up and guided him into the bedroom where they laid him down on the bed. By this time, he was just happy to be horizontal. The pain and muscle cramping were combining to overload his senses, making him feel very dizzy. Mary asked Trevor to get a wet washcloth and started to unbutton Dave's shirt.

Gently grabbing her hand, he hissed, "'S okay. I'm good."

"David…," she softly spoke, "you don't have to pretend in this house. Trevor told me you'd gotten shot a few months ago. Believe me, I've seen what bullets can do to a body."

Starsky looked at her with appreciation, then laid his head back on the pillow, surrendering to her ministrations. She glanced over the scar-riddled chest and noticed the large bruise on his right side. Even gently touching it made her patient almost leap off the mattress.

Trevor came back and handed her the washcloth. As Mary began to wipe Starsky's face, she said, "I think you should see a doctor."

"No!" Starsky bit his lip, not meaning to sound so loud. "Please, no doctors. I'll be fine, I just need to take one of my pain pills."

Mary looked at Trevor, making sure he could see the injury. He shook his head slowly, and quietly said, "That must have happened today, when we were at a shooting call."

"What kind of pills do you take?" asked Mary.

"I'm not sure," Starsky weakly said. "They're kinda big and white…shaped like a capsule."

Thinking for a moment, Mary said, "Trevor, go get those pills I was taking after I had my ankle surgery. They might be the same thing."

While Trevor was gone, Mary sat on the side of the bed and continued to pat Starsky's forehead with the washcloth. He was taking quick, short breaths trying not to work his chest muscles any more than necessary.

"Sorry to be such a pain," Starsky mumbled, his eyes closed almost as tight as his voice sounded.

"Don't you even begin to think such a thing," Mary said, taking a longer look at the surgical incisions running across his chest. She could only marvel at how he had ever survived such a brutal assault. "You must've had a very good surgeon, Dave. Not too many people could live through what you did."

Starsky opened his eyes and laid an arm back over his head onto the pillow. "I guess technically I didn't," he said softly. "They said my heart stopped twice that day."

"My goodness," Mary said, then paused before speaking again. "Then it just wasn't your time. Seems to me you must still be needed down here with the rest of us mortals."

Before Starsky had a chance to respond, Trevor returned. He handed the pill bottle to Mary, who opened it and shook out one of the capsules into her hand. She showed it to Starsky.

"Yeah, that's it," he said, recognizing the number stamped on its surface.

Starsky took the pill and washed it down with a glass of water that Trevor handed him. He hoped the medicine would work quickly and make him well enough for his host to take him home. While he couldn't be more thankful for the Woods' hospitality, Starsky also couldn't be more embarrassed either. Almost losing your cookies at dinner and needing your hosts to turn into nursemaids wasn't the best way to make a favorable impression.

Mary got up from the bed. "You just lay here and rest for a while. I'll come back and check on you later."

"'kay. Thanks again," Starsky said and closed his eyes, letting the drug's effect work its magic.

Mary and Trevor left and went to the kitchen. While Mary worked at putting away the leftovers, Trevor tended to the dishes.

As she put the last container into the refrigerator, Mary finally remarked, "Dave really needs to see a doctor, Trevor. That bruise didn't look good at all."

"He's a grown man, Mother. If he doesn't want to go, I can't make him," Trevor said, drying off the last dish.

"Well, he may be a grown man, but that doesn't mean he knows what's best for him."

"No, I suppose it doesn't."

Finished with their chores, the couple headed to the living room and sat down on the couch. Trevor put his arm around Mary and both stayed silent for a time, watching the last fading colors of the sunset. As dusk took hold outside, Mary glanced at her watch.

"I should see how Dave's doing," she said. "Maybe he could stay here tonight. It would be better for him and you wouldn't have to drive back into town."

Trevor nodded his head in agreement. "I was thinking the same thing. It'll be his decision, but I'll go talk to him."

Trevor got up and went to check on Starsky. He tapped on the bedroom door, and after hearing an acknowledgement, poked his head inside the unlit room.

"How ya doin', Dave?" Trevor asked, staying by the opened door. He wasn't sure whether to turn the light on or not.

"I'm better," Starsky replied in a tired voice. Raising his head up, he added, "You can come in, I'm still decent."

Trevor flipped the light switch on and walked over to the bed. Starsky still looked incredibly tired, as if he had been up for days. He slowly turned onto his side, and propped himself halfway up.

Before Trevor could ask him another question, Starsky said, "You've got a real comfortable bed here, Trev. I think I fell asleep right after you left."

"You look like you could use a lot more rest. Why don't you stay here tonight, huh? I've got some sweatpants and a t-shirt you could wear." Anticipating Starsky's next response, Trevor added, "Besides, Mary isn't about to let you leave, so what'd you say?"

Starsky let out a long sigh, then laid back on the bed. "I don't want to be a bother, partner."

"If you were, I'd be taking you home right now," Trevor replied with a smile. "I'll go get those clothes. That's the guest bathroom," he said, pointing to the other side of the room. "I keep an extra razor and some shaving cream in there. Feel free to use it."

Starsky took a quick look around the room. "Is there an alarm clock in here?" he asked.

"Yeah, you're looking at him," Trevor answered. "What time do you want to get up?"

"Wow, personalized service. I may not want to go back home if you keep spoiling me." Seeing a grin on Trevor's face, Starsky said, "I guess about seven?"

"Okay. Be prepared to eat more for breakfast than you did at dinner, or things could get real ugly with the cook," Trevor flippantly warned, and then headed out into the hall.

Starsky closed his eyes and settled back on the bed. It surprised him that Trevor hadn't mentioned anything about the pain medication, or why Starsky didn't want to go see a doctor. Hutch would have dragged him kicking and screaming to the hospital if he felt that's what Starsky needed. He knew Trevor cared about him, but unlike Hutch, Trevor seemed happy to let Starsky make his own decisions, without making him feel guilty or childish. Still, despite Hutch's mothering nature, there was no doubt the big blond always had Starsky's best interests at heart. _Yeah, Trevor cares a lot, but Hutch…Hutch loves me._ A twinge of pain ran through Starsky, not from a physical ache, but from a heart that longed to be made whole.

.

Hutch squinted against the bright glare coming off of the car stopped in front of him. He hated the funny-looking Pacers. They looked more like giant fish bowls than automobiles, and with so much glass, they seemed to serve no other purpose than to act as powerful sunlight reflectors. As soon as the traffic light turned green, Hutch stomped on the gas and managed to get around the annoying vehicle.

His passenger, who had mirrored Hutch's quiet mood since getting in the car, felt the time had come for a break in the silence.

"Are you getting anxious?" Babcock asked.

"Huh?"

"About going over to the Fifth?"

Hutch glanced up at the rearview mirror, then turned his focus back to the road in front of him. "No, not really."

"Liar."

Hutch snapped his head over. "So, you're a mind reader now?"

"Doesn't take a mind reader to figure out why you're so quiet this morning." Getting no reaction, Babcock added, "It's been almost a week now. You can't tell me you're not at least thinking about him."

It wasn't going to be easy to lie. The more Hutch had tried to push Starsky out of his life, the more the memory of him had grown and taken root. Had it really been only a week? Seemed more like a lifetime ago. Not wanting to discuss his thoughts at that moment, Hutch concentrated on driving. The only thing was, he just wasn't sure he wanted to reach his destination.

TBC


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

.

Starsky glanced out of the car window, once again enjoying the view from high in the foothills. Trevor's Granada was snaking its way down the hillside, and every now and then Starsky caught a whiff of pine smell and what loosely could be called fresh air. The breeze also felt markedly cooler. As the vehicle finally made it to the valley, it wasn't hard to notice the temperature difference as the California sun was already warming the concrete-paved land.

Conversation between the two had been light. Starsky was feeling better, even though his side was still tender. All morning, he'd been trying to find a discreet way to explain last night's events—mainly afraid his partner now considered him just another pill-popping addict. No cop would want to work with someone like that. Especially if that someone already had a monkey on his back—namely, some weirdo who enjoyed writing sick love notes.

Finally deciding there was no easy way around it, Starsky announced, "I've been meaning to talk to you about last night."

Trevor turned his head slightly towards his passenger. "Oh? What about?"

Showing a partial frown, Starsky remarked, "Ain't that kinda obvious? I mean, I hadn't planned on having a slumber party at your place."

"What's there to talk about? You got hurt at the call and it caught up to you. Things like that happen as you get older, trust me."

Ignoring Trevor's explanation, Starsky said, "I just wanted to let you know…" He hesitated for a moment, trying to find the right words. "That what happened last night, wasn't usual. And as far as when I'm working, I'll always have your back."

The comment didn't surprise Trevor. He thought Starsky might have some ghosts, but addiction wasn't one of them. If there was anything that did surprise him though, it was the mass of scars he'd seen on Starsky's chest. Anyone who survived something like that was entitled to seek out a little extra relief after a bad day.

"Never crossed my mind, there being a problem," Trevor said, as he pulled into the precinct to park. Scanning around the crowded lot, he added, "But if you really want to stay on my good side, how about finding us a parking space?"

A wave of relief washed over Starsky—almost good enough to take away all of his anxiety—until he saw something in the lot that put his nerves right back on edge again. As the Granada pulled closer, he checked out the passenger side of a brown sedan and saw an identifying dent in the rear fender. His inspection then traveled to the rear license plate, 018 MEL. Hutch's car. Starsky immediately sensed his day was about to change dramatically.

His intense observation hadn't gone unnoticed.

"Whose car is that?" Trevor asked.

"My partner's…" Starsky mentally grimaced at the unintentional slip, but he couldn't pretend Hutch was just some casual acquaintance. "My partner from the Ninth. I wonder what he's doing here."

As Trevor guided the car into a vacant parking space, he silently wondered the same thing.

.

From the moment the two detectives stepped into the squad room, Starsky was on high alert. His strut turned into a stiff prowl and he scanned the room from wall to wall, no doubt appearing as though he expected to be attacked at any moment. Reaching his desk, Starsky glanced over at the closed door to McMillan's office, wondering if the link to his past was lurking inside.

Suddenly the door opened and Starsky flinched, startled by the unexpected movement. Fading bits of conversation died down from inside as McMillan leaned out.

Instantly spotting the men he wanted to speak to, the captain announced, "Trevor, Dave…I need to see you," then stood back as he opened the door wider.

Deliberately stalling until he was sure Trevor would go in first, Starsky tried to steady himself. He had heard Hutch's voice and was no more ready to see him than to find out the reason for the unplanned meeting. The first look at his old partner still produced an edgy sensation.

Seated next to Babcock, Hutch gazed up at Starsky, trying to decide whether to smile or not. Starsky's eyes locked on his, and for a moment, nothing else mattered except the silent flow of communication going back and forth between them. For Hutch, it was the relief of seeing his friend, whole and well, despite what some nutcase was trying to do to him. He could have sworn Starsky was conveying the same feeling to him. At least he hoped so.

Starsky concentrated on the figure sitting next to Babcock. He almost felt anger at Hutch, for working with somebody else, but deep inside he was thankful Dobey had paired him with a good partner. The hopeful look in Hutch's eyes drew Starsky in, keeping him frozen while seemingly waiting for some type of acknowledgement. Deliberately, Starsky broke off his stare. Until he knew what had prompted this particular get together, he wasn't ready to play nicely.

McMillan closed the door and walked over to Trevor. "Trevor Woods, this is Ken Hutchinson and Michael Babcock," he said, introducing the men. "They're detectives from the Ninth Precinct."

Trevor reached out his hand. "From the Ninth? I guess you all know each other then," he said, nodding towards Starsky and shaking their hands.

"Have a seat, gentlemen," McMillan remarked as he headed to his own chair.

After everyone had settled down, McMillan opened a file folder and pulled out a sheet of paper.

Handing it across the desk to Starsky, he said, "Dave, this note was delivered to the front desk after you and Trevor got off shift."

Hutch watched as an unprepared Starsky read the xeroxed message, the expression on his face changing into one of pure misery. After he finished, Starsky glanced at his former partner, then tossed the paper back on McMillan's desk. "Capt'n…" he began.

"Save it," McMillan cut in. "Sergeant Hutchinson's already advised me this wasn't written by your buddy Prudholm. It appears the person who was doing the target practice in your old precinct has followed you over to this one. What I want to know is who you think this dirtbag is, because he certainly seems to know you."

The tone of McMillan's voice immediately set Hutch off. The superior wasn't leaving much doubt that he believed Starsky knew who was responsible.

"I wish I could give you a name, Captain. But I've got no idea who this is."

Hutch swallowed anxiously. Starsky might be fooling everyone else, but Hutch recognized the slight strain in the Bronx-tinged voice. He'd heard it before, when Starsky told little white lies to Dobey. But where he'd learned it by heart was hearing that voice answer him untruthfully in the hospital—every time he'd asked Starsky if he was okay. While his partner's face could hide the truth, Starsky's eyes never did. As if reading his thoughts, Starsky looked over at Hutch, his face resembling that of a small child wondering if he'd just gotten away with a whopper.

McMillan let out a noisy huff. "Alright, then. Whoever this maniac is, I want him caught and put out of commission." Turning to Trevor, he added, "Detectives Hutchinson and Babcock are here on my request to help with the case. Fill them in on whatever you have, and Dave…" McMillan gazed at Starsky, "If you do think of someone, I trust you'll share that with your fellow officers. That's all, gentlemen."

Feeling his face start to redden, Starsky jumped out of his chair and headed to the door. As he passed Trevor, he mumbled, "Gotta hit the john," and continued his hasty exit out of the office.

Trevor nodded at him then turned his attention to the two visitors. "We can get together in one of the interview rooms down the hall," he said as the group entered the squad room. "Just give me a moment and I'll grab our case files." Babcock gave him an acknowledging smile while Hutch stared vacantly towards the door leading out to the hallway.

As Trevor gathered up some folders from his desk, Hutch said, "Say, I think I could use a quick break myself before we get started. Which way is the men's room?"

Pointing at the exit, Trevor said, "To your right, about halfway down the hall."

Without another word, Hutch quickly made his way out of the room. Babcock watched him leave, then remarked to Trevor, "I think they're going to be a while. Got any fresh coffee?"

Hutch entered the restroom and stopped as soon as he saw Starsky, bent over and grasping the counter with both arms extended. The curly head turned in his direction, but nothing changed in his solemn demeanor. Releasing a sigh, Starsky straightened and turned on the faucet. He ran a hand through the stream and splashed some water on his face. After grabbing a paper towel, he stood quietly and gazed in the mirror, seemingly oblivious to Hutch's presence.

"Good to see you too, Starsk," Hutch announced, suddenly tired of the cold shoulder act.

A smirk lit up on Starsky's face, strikingly the closest thing to a smile on the otherwise forlorn exterior. "Sorry I'm not in the mood to throw you a welcome party, buddy," he said, drying his hands. "But apparently I'm not on anybody's guest list at the moment, either—just their hit list."

Hutch bowed his head, thinking about McMillan's earlier comments. "Why'd you lie to him? About not knowing who's responsible for the shootings?"

A lethal glare erupted from Starsky as he whipped around to face Hutch. "What? You saying you believe him? That what's happened is somehow my fault?"

Before Hutch could answer, Starsky angrily threw down the wad of paper and started to leave. Not convinced their conversation was over, Hutch stuck his arm out trying to stop him, inadvertently jabbing Starsky in his tender right side. A hiss shot out as Starsky brought up one, then both arms around his midsection, trying unsuccessfully to ease the sharp pain.

Startled, Hutch exclaimed, "What's wrong!? Did you get hurt?"

"I'm fine," Starsky grunted, stepping back to the sink. He placed one hand on the counter to steady himself as he tried to take in a full breath of air.

Hutch wanted to go to him. He wanted to place a comforting hand on his shoulder and let him know he didn't have to try and hide anything. But this was a post-Gunther world, and Hutch could see Starsky wasn't the same confiding person he used to be. It was hard to admit, but the truth was standing right in front of him—seemingly determined to avoid his help or concern. Sadly, Hutch realized he needed to come to terms with that. If he didn't, he would certainly end up driving a permanent wedge into their friendship.

But Hutch could be just as stubborn as his head-strong partner, and he wasn't ready to accept the severed link in their partnership just yet. Taking a tentative step forward, he asked, "How about letting me take a quick look?"

Starsky raised his head, and stared straight at the mirror. "I told you I'm fine. There's nothing to see."

"Okay, it was just an offer." Hutch backed off a little, but then remarked, "You still didn't say why you lied."

Starsky said nothing, but the tension in his face had lifted.

"Who do you think it is, Starsk?"

Another long moment passed before Starsky answered softly, "I'm not sure." Keeping a hand on his side, he looked over at Hutch. "Just something in what the notes said. It's like I can almost hear the flake talking."

A smile appeared on Hutch's face. "Well, then let's find him, before he causes any more grief."

"Hutch…"

Expectantly, Hutch met Starsky's concerned gaze. "Yeah?"

"I can't have this turn into another Prudholm…I like it here."

The smile that had been on Hutch's face quickly vanished, along with his lingering hope that Starsky would return to be his partner. Dumbfounded, he struggled to find something to say, something that wouldn't betray his disappointment or his anger.

Starsky watched Hutch's expression change. Suddenly, he realized the reason.

"Hey, Hutch," he said, stepping a little closer. "I didn't mean…I don't want you out of my life. I just can't go back to what we had."

"What we had, Starsk, was you and me," Hutch shot out, pointing his finger at Starsky, then himself. "You just can't decide which part of me you want and what you don't. I would bend over backward for you, but I won't let you break me and then pick which half you want. If I'm not good enough for you to work with, then…then to hell with you!"

.

Trevor placed his coffee cup on the table and sat down, joining Babcock who wasted no time in slathering the pancake on his plate with syrup.

"Are you sure they're not going to miss us?" Trevor asked, watching his guest slice up the hot cake.

"Trust me," Babcock said, preparing to swallow a mouthful of food. "They'll still be in the restroom when we get back. How did you get your cafeteria to serve such a great breakfast? We're lucky to get day-old donuts and cold coffee at our precinct."

"It might have had something to do with the last deputy chief who worked here," Trevor replied. "Rumor was his wife couldn't boil an egg right, so he made sure he could get a decent breakfast when he came to work."

He watched as Babcock devoured the rest of his pancake, then asked, "So, how long have Dave and Ken been partners?"

After taking a sip of his coffee, Babcock answered, "Oh, it's been at least eight years. Hutch and I started as detectives about the same time." He set his cup down and poured in some sugar. "Starsky was already working in homicide. On a fluke, Hutch got paired up with him instead of me. Starsky had been working a major case and lost his partner…"

When Babcock didn't finish, Trevor turned more towards him. "Lost his partner? How?" he asked.

Babcock gazed absently at the table while he stirred his coffee. "Wasn't a lot said about it. Respect for the family, and all. But apparently the guy ate his gun."

Trevor nearly dropped the cup he was holding. "Are you serious? How long had they been partners?"

"Not very long. Maybe a few months. There were a lot of rumors, but since I was pretty new, I didn't know which ones to believe." Babcock finished eating the last morsel from his plate. "Anyway, Hutch got assigned to him and ever since then they've been one hell of a team."

Trevor debated asking his next question, but figured he had nothing to lose. "So what happened? I mean, how come they're still not working together?"

"Guess you'll have to ask Starsky that," Babcock replied, not really wanting to either venture a guess or say any more about the two former partners.

"Yeah, I suppose I will," Trevor said, mainly to himself. He was still mulling over what Babcock had just said. There was a lot he didn't know about Dave, but Trevor was slowly learning they held more things in common than he would have ever guessed. As he and Babcock got up to leave, Trevor was already wondering when he'd have a chance to talk privately with Dave.

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"To hell with me?" Starsky stared at the man he once considered more than a friend. He started to say something, then stopped. They had been here before, full of hurt and mad at each other. Then it was because of a woman. This time…hell, this time it was because… _because of me._

"Okay, Hutch. To hell with me, but _this_ is why I left. You and me, that's over. It doesn't exist anymore." Starsky took a few steps closer, and in a softer voice said, "You were right. I have changed, but apparently it's _you_ who can't deal with me in one piece. If you'll pardon me, I think I've kept my partner waiting long enough."

Hutch stood silently as Starsky brushed by him and went out the door. He was fuming, but had no idea who to be angry at. Himself? Starsky? Gunther?

"Damn it! Damn it to hell!" The words echoed throughout the empty room. Emotionally spent, Hutch rubbed his hands over his eyes, and tried to call forth whatever inner strength he could. This assignment was going to suck, but there wasn't anything he could do other than his job. With his motivation belonging in one of the urinals, Hutch gathered what was left of himself and headed out the door.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Once again, I'd like to thank all my readers and especially those who are leaving comments. It really helps to get a feel of how one's story is being received. Without compromising the story's plot, there are just a few things I'd like to mention. This was originally intended to be two separate stories set in sequence, but it just didn't work that way. It is also intended to be a suspense story, so hang in there! I also wanted to show a little (ok, more than a little) of Starsky's 'dark side' here, so please bear with me. He's having a pretty tough year (coincidently, so has the author!). As a show of gratitude, here's two more chapters for tonight...enjoy!

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Chapter 9

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After checking the squad room, Starsky went down the hall looking for the missing pair of detectives. Fortunately, he caught Babcock and Trevor just as they were coming off the elevator.

As Starsky approached them, Babcock said, "Hey, Starsky. Boy, you've got it made over here. I swear that cafeteria downstairs actually serves real food."

"How ya doing, Babcock?" Starsky remarked. "I see Dobey's got you paired up with Hutch…is Simmons okay?"

"Oh, sure. He just took two weeks off."

"Two weeks? Your partner?" Starsky turned towards Trevor. "That man would be hard pressed to take two days off for open heart surgery."

Babcock chuckled. "Yeah, you're right."

"He finally decide to take a vacation?" wondered Starsky.

"You got me. He mentioned he needed to do some work around the house. Guess the old lady's getting tired of seeing the garage used for a storage shed. Wants to park her car in it or something dumb like that."

The trio let off a quick laugh as Hutch walked up to them. Trevor noticed a quick change in Starsky's demeanor and wondered what had been said between the two former partners. Not wanting to prolong the uneasy mood between the pair, Trevor suggested they all convene to an open interview room to start discussing their case. What Trevor wished he could discuss, was something far from police work.

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Twos hours later the group decided to break for lunch. Several suspects had been discussed as possibilities, but no one in particular stuck out as being the most likely. Even though Babcock wanted to visit the cafeteria again, a consensus was reached and they decided to venture out to a new Chinese restaurant.

Although conversation flowed easily between the men, what was noticeable was the lack of any from either Starsky to Hutch or vice versa. Trevor had been watching the blond half of the duo ever since being introduced to him in McMillan's office. From what little he had discovered, Hutch seemed to be a very competent investigator and could effectively argue why he thought someone should or shouldn't be considered a suspect. Personality-wise, though, Trevor couldn't get over the difference between the two ex-partners. Hutch came across as more open, even-tempered, and sophisticated. Dave, on the other hand, was quick-tempered, held his feelings closer, and at times could appear to be the most naïve person on earth. How these two different individuals could come together and work as one functioning unit was indeed interesting.

What especially intrigued Trevor was the almost invisible and seemingly instinctive interaction that went on between the former partners. A glance here, a facial twitch there. The tension between them was obvious—they reminded Trevor of two magnets butted together with identical poles repelling each other—but, clearly, if ever one of them decided to change, the connection between the two would become inseparable.

When lunch was finished, everyone got back in the Granada. As they drove away from the restaurant, a call came out on the radio.

"_All units, all units in the vicinity of Marsh and Vine. Report of a 2-11 in progress. Adam Nine is requesting backup."_

Starsky grabbed the mike. _"Dispatch, this is Baker Four. Show us in route, ETA four minutes."_

Trevor glanced over at his passenger. "You forget, I don't drive as fast as you," he murmured.

"It's the pedal on the right, Trevor. You just push down hard on it," Starsky said matter of factly.

Hutch watched the two from the back seat. Starsky hadn't been lying. He did like it here, and there was no indication he was ready to give it up and come back to either him, or Dobey. As the car skidded around a corner, the radio crackled again.

"_Baker Four, Adam Five. We have reports of shots fired."_

An uneasy apprehension ran through the Granada. Again, Starsky picked up the mike.

"Copy dispatch." Glancing towards the back seat, Starsky added, "Well, boys, looks like it's time to earn our paychecks."

Arriving on the scene, Trevor parked the car a short distance behind the first black and white he saw. Everyone got out and darted towards the cruiser, huddling along its passenger side for cover. Trevor spoke to the driver, who was nervously watching his wounded partner crouched behind a trash bin a few yards away. The officer was pinned down by gunfire from a second-story window in a derelict building across the street. Babcock rose up and laid his arms across the patrol car's trunk to return fire, but quickly dropped back down when bullets started hitting the roof.

Trevor took a fast peek over the hood at the gunman's position. He then glanced over at the wounded officer and saw him slump unconscious to the ground. It wasn't hard to figure out what needed to be done. He knelt back down and turned to his partner.

"I need two fast guys, Dave," he said in a depressed tone. He wasn't going to make it to the front door anywhere near as quickly as Starsky, and he knew that Dave wouldn't hesitate to go. Trevor felt like an army commander preparing to send a man out on a suicide mission. What he hoped was that Dave would pick the best of his former coworkers to go with him.

Starsky listened to Trevor and heard the pain in his voice. He could tell Trevor wanted to be his backup, but given the circumstances, there were other, more fit people Starsky could rely on. He placed a hand on Trevor's shoulder and gave him a tight squeeze.

Turning to his right, Starsky looked at the man kneeling beside him. "C'mon," he said, "We're gonna nail this turkey."

Hutch wasn't sure he even heard right until Starsky leaned past him and told Babcock, "Me and Hutch are going in. Keep Trevor company down here and make sure you give us plenty of cover, okay?"

"You got it," Babcock answered.

Starsky took a long, hard look at Hutch. He needed someone he could trust and waited breathlessly for Hutch to join him. The soft look on the blond's face was familiar, but unrevealing. As the seconds passed away with no response, Starsky wondered if their eight year partnership had all but been completely severed. Dipping his eyes down, he reluctantly started to go around Hutch, intent on taking Babcock along instead. Suddenly, a hand reached out and grabbed his arm. It was Hutch's.

Acknowledging the gesture with a smile, Starsky turned towards Trevor. "On my signal, okay?" he asked.

"You got it, kid. Just say when," Trevor replied.

Starsky checked once more with Hutch, then yelled at Trevor and started to dash across the street, Hutch right behind him. He felt rounds whizzing by, but managed to cross the street unharmed. When they reached the front entrance, Starsky put his shoulder down and plowed into the old wooden door. The rotted center gave out easily and his momentum sent him to the floor, but Hutch grabbed an arm and helped him up. As they started searching for a staircase, the continuing sound of gunfire outside let them know their suspect was still upstairs.

Finally locating a set of stairs, Starsky and Hutch made their way up to the second floor. From the way the interior was laid out, it looked as though the building had once served as a manufacturing plant. The complicated layout and lack of lighting made it a difficult place to search. There were large open areas joined by short hallways, some of which led into smaller adjoining rooms that were pitch black. Within just a few minutes, the partners stopped and looked at each other. The noise outside had ceased and the silence inside was almost deafening.

"Which way you want to go?" asked Hutch softly.

Starsky swallowed hard, then replied, "You think there's another staircase somewhere?"

"I'm sure there is, but trying to find it might be a problem."

"Well, he's either gonna head to the roof or downstairs. You got a preference?"

Hutch looked around, and shook his head. "It's too big of an area, Starsky. We're not going to find him except by accident."

Frustrated, Starsky grumbled, "He's _not_ getting away this time, Hutch. I say we try for the roof; that's where he went last time."

Before Hutch had a chance to answer, they heard the sound of something falling on the floor above them. Both detectives turned and ran back to the stairway.

A few moments later, they emerged from the darkened staircase on the third floor. Keeping close to the walls, they entered the doorway of a large room that was partially lit by a few windows. Hutch sighted some old furniture stacked along one wall and a chair lying on its side nearby. He signaled his intention to Starsky so he could cover him. As Hutch started across the room, a figure suddenly darted from the shadows off to his right and the explosive sound of a gunshot filled the room. Hutch hit the floor rolling as Starsky immediately fired his gun again in the suspect's direction.

When the echo of the gunshots died down, Starsky yelled, "Hutch! You okay?"

Hutch scampered over to a row of lockers, thankful to be behind some kind of cover.

"Hey, Hutch!"

"I'm okay," he said. "You see him?"

Starsky peeked around the wall beside him. "Not this second. Cover me!"

Hutch barely had time to react. _Damn it, Starsky! You're still acting crazy!_ He fired a couple of rounds and watched as his ex-partner disappeared through a doorway leading deeper into the building. Cussing heatedly, Hutch stood and took off after Starsky. He entered an adjoining hallway and followed the fading sound of running footsteps coming from the darkened passageway.

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Outside, the firing from the sniper had ceased. Babcock and Trevor stepped away from the patrol car and checked on the status of the wounded officer. Trevor tried to feel for a pulse, but couldn't find one. He looked into the dull eyes of the dead man's partner and told him what he already knew.

Turning to Babcock, he said, "Not much we can do here. Let's go find our partners."

After reloading their weapons, the two detectives hustled across the street and entered the building. Quickly canvassing the ground floor, they located a staircase and went up to the second floor. An abstract pattern of light and dark permeated the wide expanse in front of them but there was no sign of either Starsky or Hutch.

Babcock nudged Trevor and softly asked, "Here, or upstairs?"

Trevor hesitated for a moment, trying to listen for any type of noise. "I say we go up one more. This guy likes to take advantage of high ground."

Returning to the stairwell, the pair made their way to the third floor. Trevor stopped at the doorway leading into a large storage area. The air was thicker and dustier up here, and he kept still for a while, letting his eyes adjust to the murky lighting. He let his vision fall to the floor, and noticed where the dust had been disturbed in one spot, as if something had been dragged across it. Nearby, a few spent rounds lay on the ground from what could have been a 9mm automatic.

"They were here," he said, pointing to what he'd seen. "Looks like they kept heading that way."

Babcock nodded in agreement and they continued their search further into the building.

Within a minute, Hutch had lost the sounds he'd been following and stopped running. While trying to keep his heavy breathing silent, he continued to thread his way through the dark hall until it ended at the entrance into another huge room. He peered around the dimly lit interior, but there was nothing to see except frozen shades of dark and milky grays. Silently screaming out his frustration and fear, Hutch wondered if Starsky might be close by, hiding in the shadows and waiting for the suspect to make his move. But a more realistic and terrifying thought crossed his mind, that Starsky was God-knows-where, still chasing after the gunman. The explosive sound of a door busting open in the darkness pulled Hutch out of his protected spot and sent him racing towards the source.

As he reached the far end of the room, Hutch heard the departing sound of someone running and caught a human silhouette darting past a vacant doorway. He scrambled out of the room into another and watched up ahead as a wide band of sunlight on the floor slowly shrank into a fine line. Following the light trail, Hutch located the door that had just closed. It opened into bright landing fed by an overhead skylight with a flight of stairs leading up to the roof. He climbed the steps and, on reaching the exit door, paused for a moment to calm himself. He grabbed the knob and slowly pushed the door open, taking a good look at his surroundings before rushing onto the roof and huddling behind the nearest metal duct vent.

Hutch was glad to be out of the labyrinthine building, but now, seeing all the metal hoods and air conditioners arranged haphazardly on the roof before him, he felt he had just traded one chaotic maze for another. The sound of a gunshot coming from behind him sent a chill down his spine. He sprinted over towards the noise, strategically using whatever cover he could find along the way. As Hutch started to move to yet one more air duct, a figure jumped out of hiding just to his right. Knowing he was dead meat, Hutch still tried to aim his weapon at the attacker, not willing to go down without a fight. With his finger on the trigger, he was ready to apply the last pound of pressure until the sight of the familiar jacket and curly hair stopped him cold. So sure his gun was about to fire, Hutch instinctively pulled the barrel up, grateful it didn't go off.

"Did you see him!?" Starsky yelled, aiming his own gun towards the sky.

"See who?" Hutch quickly glanced around, wondering if Starsky had meant the suspect or someone else.

"Shit! Son of a bitch!" Starsky straightened from his half-crouched position. He turned from side to side, looking hopelessly out across the roof.

As he started to run past, Hutch reached out and grabbed his arm, "Hey! Are you forgetting something?"

Starsky yanked his arm back. "I ain't got time for this, Hutch," he said coldly.

"Starsky…I'm your backup," Hutch said, barely able to keep his emotions controlled. "We either go together or not at all. Now what's it gonna be?"

Starsky studied the intense gaze on Hutch's face. He knew that look well, and the anger built up behind it. Taking one last look around, Starsky stuffed the Beretta back into its holster. He turned and took a few steps towards a tin locker, then drew back and plowed his hand into it, leaving behind an appreciable dent.

Letting go of the lungful of air he was holding, Hutch holstered his gun and sat down on a nearby hood. He watched as the man in front of him seemingly waged war with himself, the stress and tension so plain on his face that Hutch could read almost every thought going through Starsky's head. While the moderate breeze began to dry the sweat off of his skin, Hutch waited patiently for Starsky to speak. He hoped his partner still harbored enough trust in him to say what was weighing so heavily on his mind.

"I almost had him, Hutch." The voice was weak. "That scum is slimier than a whole truckload of greased pigs."

"Did you get a look at him?"

Starsky let out a snort, then sat down across from Hutch. "Yeah, a good one. All from the back of his head."

"He can't stay lucky forever, Starsk. We'll get him."

The two detectives jumped a little when Babcock and Trevor suddenly appeared behind them. By the dejected look on their faces, Trevor suspected that the gunman had gotten away. He came up and sat down beside Starsky.

"No luck, huh?" Trevor asked.

Starsky shook his head. "Nah. Got away again."

"Well, let's get downstairs. I'm sure somebody's wondering where we are."

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The four men made their way back down to the street. As they came out of the building, Starsky noticed Captain McMillan standing by one of the patrol cars. He slowed and turned to Trevor, nodding towards the supervisor's direction. Trevor gave a sympathetic smile and the two proceeded to walk over to McMillan, followed closely by Hutch and Babcock.

"Captain," said Trevor, greeting his boss.

McMillan gazed sternly at his detectives, then announced, "Officer Penthrum was pronounced dead at Mercy Hospital just a few minutes ago." Directing his attention to Starsky, he added, "The officers on scene tell me after you went into the building, there was more gunfire. Do we have the suspect?"

Starsky reeled back from the news. This couldn't be happening again, a cop being shot and killed because some psycho had a score to settle. He struggled for something to say, but couldn't seem to think of anything coherent at the moment.

"I…no…there wasn't…"

Hutch cut in and said, "Captain, Starsky and I chased the suspect up to the roof, but somehow he managed to get away."

"I see, Sergeant. So who are we looking for then?" McMillan asked. When he didn't get an immediate answer, the captain continued, saying, "What I'm looking for, detectives, is the suspect's description. Old, young? Male, female?"

Hanging his head, Hutch replied, "I, I didn't get close enough to see, sir."

The captain stiffened and folded his arms in front of him. "Did you see the suspect?" he asked, staring at Starsky.

"Yes, sir. I did." Knowing McMillan would want more, Starsky added, "It was a male, probably early to mid forties. He had dark pants and a dark jacket…and his hair was dark brown, maybe black."

"Dark pants, and a dark jacket. Maybe dark hair." As he uncrossed his arms, McMillan remarked, "Who was doing the shooting?"

"I was," Starsky quickly admitted, giving Hutch a slight nod in hopes he'd stay quiet.

"You were." McMillan paused, then added, "What kind of weapon did he have?"

Starsky was sure his face just went pale. He couldn't honestly remember seeing the suspect holding a rifle or a gun. He was so busy chasing the dark figure through the dimly lit building, that all he ever concentrated on was the man's back.

"Sergeant, I asked what kind of weapon did he have?" McMillan's voice was beginning to sound impatient.

"I didn't see one."

It was bad enough that McMillan was looking astonished at him, but Starsky could also see the changed expressions on Trevor and Hutch's faces.

McMillan let out a deep breath. "Detective, I'm not even going to venture asking you if you're sure you were, in fact, chasing our shooter. But I will expect a full report on my desk before your shift ends. And I'd make damn sure you do a better job of articulating why you fired at someone who, according to you, wasn't even armed, than you just did with me." Before he turned to leave, McMillan cast a glare at the other three men. "I don't need to explain to any of you how to conduct an investigation here, do I?"

"No, sir," came the simultaneous reply.

As the captain briskly walked to his vehicle, Trevor glanced over at Starsky. He placed a hand on the brunet's shoulder. "Don't let any of what he said get to you," he offered, tightening his grip. "C'mon, I'll take you back to the office so you can get started on your report. Then I'll come back and help Ken and Michael out here. Sound good?"

Hutch listened to Trevor talking to Starsky with a twinge of jealousy. He wanted to interrupt their conversation, if for no other reason than to ask Starsky why he told McMillan he was the only one who had fired at the suspect. Hutch had finally felt a connection starting to form again when they were up on the roof. At least Starsky was talking to him, sharing his frustration, even confiding a little bit. But it had all been cut short, interrupted by Trevor and Babcock's untimely arrival. And now, Trevor was just going to drop him off and leave him alone with a typewriter? Didn't he realize what Starsky was going through? It suddenly dawned on him that Trevor couldn't possibly know, unless Starsky had told him about Prudholm, but how likely was that? Looking back at the two standing in front of him, Hutch wasn't sure he could venture a guess.

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

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Starsky leaned back in his chair and once again looked up at the clock on the office wall. It had been ten minutes since he last checked and two hours from the time he'd started his report. He turned the paper feeder on the typewriter, moving the sheet wrapped around the cylinder a little higher. With a disappointed sigh, he rolled it back to its previous position, and hacked out another sentence to add to the dismally short paragraph already on the page. At the rate he was going, the report wasn't going to be done anytime sooner than midnight. He wondered how his cohorts were coming along with their investigation back at the crime scene, and also thought about what McMillan had said. Starsky hadn't felt so worthless since his first week on patrol as a new rookie. Back then, he only had to show up for work to get yelled at for something. But now, showing up meant people would die. _The academy needs to put that in their curriculum—how to deal with the fact that, because of you, someone gets their life snuffed out._

Unable to sit at his desk anymore, Starsky got up and walked out of the room. A few minutes later he found himself going into the Human Resources office. A smiling female clerk came to the counter.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yeah. I'm Detective Starsky, from Homicide," he said. "I need to look at the personnel file for an Officer Penthrum."

The woman's pleasing features quickly vanished. "Officer Penthrum. I'm sorry, but his file was handed over to Captain Davis from Patrol."

"Oh, I see. I guess I'll go…talk to him, then."

Starsky left the office feeling a little red in the face. He just wanted to know a little more about the man who'd died because of him today. Walking down the hall he questioned how much worse he would feel if the guy had been married, with kids…maybe a dog thrown in, too. Or would it be any better if he was single, with no family? It didn't matter. The man was still dead. Nothing was going to change that. Starsky pushed open the squad room doors, and ignoring the probing eyes of the other detectives, sat back down in front of his typewriter.

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Hutch sat in the back of Trevor's Granada, trying desperately to massage the migraine out of his head. They had been at the crime scene for almost three hours, most of that spent going through the abandoned building, looking for any kind of evidence the shooter may have left behind. The only items Babcock and he had been able to find were the spent casings from both the sniper's rifle and Starsky's gun. Hutch wasn't entirely sure why Starsky insisted on telling McMillan what he did, other than the slim possibility of keeping Hutch off of the captain's shit list. But regardless of what McMillan thought, the man he and Starsky were chasing after in that building was the shooter and nobody else.

Returning to the precinct, the three detectives got out of the car and went inside the building. As they entered the office, Starsky was just pulling a sheet of paper out of the typewriter.

"You still working on your report?" Trevor asked incredulously.

"Not anymore," Starsky said, picking up two other pages from his desk. He gathered them together and handed the stack to Trevor. "What'd you come up with at the scene, anything?"

"Just some rifle casings, along with the rounds that you fired."

"Glad to know we weren't chasin' a ghost," he said, glancing at Hutch.

"Dave, I don't think that's what the captain was…"

Interrupting his partner, Starsky remarked, "Trevor, you got my report. I'm going home. Call me if you need anything, otherwise…maybe I'll see you in the morning?"

Confused, Trevor asked, "What do you mean?"

"Nothin'." Starsky sighed, then looked at Hutch and Babcock. "Guess I'll see you, too?"

"Sure. Get some rest, Starsky," Babcock said.

Hutch stared at Starsky for a moment, and gave him a slight nod. In reply, he got the tiniest hint of a smile just before Starsky headed out the door.

Trevor watched him leave, then turned his attention to the others. "Can't thank you enough for helping search that building. I'm sure I still would've been there at daybreak."

"You're welcome," said Hutch. He glanced up at the clock, not happy to see it was almost six o'clock.

His action got Trevor's attention. "Hey, since you guys are going to be up here for a bit, why not plan on staying at my place for a few nights? Save you having to make that long drive home and then back up here. I don't know how David does that every day, but I've got plenty of extra room at the house. Plus, my wife's a great cook. What'd you say?"

Hutch spoke up first. "Oh, we couldn't think of imposing like that. It's not that long of a drive."

Babcock gave him a playful jab. "Speak for yourself there, partner. The city ain't paying us for commuting. Besides, I haven't had some good home cookin' since I went to my Mom's house for Christmas last year. I say we accept our host's generous invitation."

"Alright, but we still need to go back and pack some clothes," answered Hutch. "We'll see you in the morning, Trevor."

As Hutch followed Babcock out of the office, he thought about how much he just wanted to talk to Starsky alone somewhere. This situation was getting ugly, and Hutch could see Starsky beginning to throw up a wall of protection as a last resort. It was a façade that led everyone on the outside to believe nothing was wrong, while inside letting him silently crumble.

While Hutch didn't like the idea, he was starting to believe he might have to seek Trevor's help. It would be risky. Starsky wouldn't take kindly to being ganged up on, even if it was for his own good.

.

Somewhere in town, another conversation was taking place regarding the shooting earlier in the day.

"What'd ya mean, you didn't get a chance to leave a note?" The angry voice came through the phone line hot and prickly, sounding like a bad connection.

"You got trouble understanding English? I'm telling you I had more pressing things to concern myself with."

A loud sigh, and then, "That's not part of our _deal!_"

"Look, asshole. You can take over any time you like, but I get the rest of my money right now if you don't need my services any longer!"

"You're not getting shit until I say you're done." The man's tone was calmer, but the attitude remained cold and deadly.

"Yeah, look you fucker. Now's not the time to be growing balls. I'll get your damn note delivered tomorrow."

There was a momentary pause on the other end. "No. Just keep a hold of it. I think it's time Starsky gets a more personal taste of his nightmare."

"Whatever. I already told you what I would've preferred."

"Yeah, and I still say you're a sick bastard. Tomorrow then, same time. And don't make me have to call twice!"

"Oh, go fuck yourself."

The caller hung up. He looked at the folded piece of paper lying in front of him, and studied the seven numbers scrawled in ink on its surface. Picking up the phone, he started to slowly dial each one.

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Starsky pulled up in front of his apartment and winced at the sight of the Mustang parked in the driveway. He looked at his watch and noticed he was arriving home almost an hour later than usual. He got out of the car and looked up at the top of the landing, not exactly sure if he was glad to see the woman seated there with her back against his front door.

As he reached the top of the stairs, he glanced at Bree with compassion. "I take it you've been waiting for me?"

"Yeah, and would it make you feel worse if I told you I've been here for two hours?"

Starsky grinned, then said, "Only if you left work early today. According to my watch, it's only been half an hour since you got off."

"Okay, you're right. Can't fault a girl from tryin', though."

Offering a hand to help her up, Starsky remarked, "So…to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Bree grabbed hold and pushed herself up. "Same as always," she said nonchalantly. "You're in trouble, and you need help."

Starsky drew back a bit, his mouth open in surprise. Gathering his thoughts, he unlocked the door, and after he pushed it open, motioned for Bree to step inside.

After slipping off his jacket and holster, Starsky went into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator door and grabbed a beer. Turning to Bree, he asked, "You want something to drink?"

"No, I'm good," she said, taking a seat on the couch.

Starsky popped off the bottle cap and tossed it on the kitchen counter. He took a long swig, then stiffly walked into the living room. As he settled down beside Bree, he felt the first twinge of pain from his chest. _Yep, right on time._

"You're still hurting, aren't you?"

No doubt Bree had picked up on the slight facial twitch he made as he sat down. "I'm sure you didn't come over here to discuss my medical condition," he said, taking another sip of beer. "So spill, what'd Hutch tell you?" The lost look on her face instantly convinced him she had no idea of what he was talking about.

"No one's told me anything, Davey," she said coolly. "But I know something happened today." She paused to take a breath, then added, "_Please,_ talk to me. You're my brother and I want to help. Even if you think there's nothing I can do, I can't sit on the sideline and watch you..."

"Watch me what?" he said in a sharp tone.

"I think you know."

"No, I _don't_ know. I'm not a mind reader like you." Starsky cringed, not intending for the last statement to sound so caustic.

"You don't know what it's like," Bree responded, "Being able to see bits of the future that involve things happening to people you care about. That's what happened today. No voices, no ghosts hovering around my bed, just a clear vision that I can't make any sense of except that you were involved and…and it scared me."

"What'd you see?" he asked softly.

"Oh no, Davey. Two can play this game. What good does it do to tell you anything, when you just brush it off and call it nothing?"

Starsky leaned forward and set the beer bottle down on the end table. "Maybe _you_ don't know what it's like," he said, "to have someone with your…ability, telling you things you _don't_ want to hear. I can't fight against what I can't see, Bree. If everyone knew something bad might happen to 'em when they woke up, then nobody would ever get out of bed." With a gentler tone, he continued, saying, "I know what you're trying to do, and I love you for it, but…"

"If this were about Hutch, you'd be begging me to tell you everything I could."

"That's not fair, and you know it!" Starsky snapped. He dropped his head, suddenly feeling lightheaded as the day's events caught up to him. "Bree," he said tiredly, "I don't want to argue, I…it's been a long day. You're welcome to stay, but I can't talk about this, alright?"

Bree recognized the ultimatum, and reluctantly decided to stop trying to convince him of anything tonight. Still, she wanted to learn what he'd thought Hutch had told her. It wouldn't be easy. David looked worn out and probably just wanted to turn into a couch potato for the rest of the evening.

"I've got an idea, then," Bree said, acting on a hunch. "I can go grab something from the drive-in and bring it back here. How does that sound, huh? A couple of chili dogs? Special fries?"

Starsky wrinkled his nose. That did sound good, but there was one thing Bree hadn't mentioned—

"Oh, and definitely two chocolate shakes."

_God, the girl really could read minds._ "Fine. Here," he said, and reached back in his jeans pocket to get his wallet. He pulled out a ten dollar bill and handed it to Bree. "Get whatever you want, but I want change back."

With a smile on her face, Bree snatched the bill and headed out the front door. Starsky leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. He knew he was being manipulated, but at least it wasn't by an amateur. Truth was, he didn't really want to be by himself tonight. There were too many demons lurking in the dark, just waiting for the perfect time to strike. A jab of pain pierced his chest, causing him to catch his breath. _Shit. Just for one night, why can't this go away? _He pushed himself off the couch and went in search of the amber pill bottle.

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The phone started to ring in the living room. Its noise forced Trevor, tired from the long day, to hurry from the kitchen to answer it. As he raised the receiver to his ear, he dully said, "Hello?"

"Is this Detective Trevor Woods of the Bay City PD?" the caller asked.

Cautiously, Trevor answered, "Yes." His home number was unlisted, and had been for several years. If the caller had been from work, they wouldn't have asked who he was in that way. "Who is this?" he asked.

"That partner of yours got an officer killed today."

Trevor stood in stunned silence for a moment. Unable to come up with a civil response, he angrily challenged, "What do you want?"

"_You're next_."

Yanking the phone away from his ear, Trevor held it a few inches in front of his face and yelled, "Who the hell is this!" When he didn't hear a response, he placed the receiver back against his ear but the caller had hung up.

Mary came out of the kitchen, upset at hearing her husband's shout. She saw Trevor standing frozen with the phone still in his hand. "Trevor? Who was that?" she asked nervously.

"No one," Trevor announced. "Just a prank caller."

She watched him stare at the floor for a few seconds, then hang the phone up. Slowly, she turned to go back into the kitchen. Whatever the call was really about, she hoped Trevor would tell her, and soon.

.

Starsky took a long slurp through the straw trying to rid the paper cup of its last bit of icy sweetness. Bree sat across the table from him, annoyed at the obvious attempt to avoid answering her last question.

"Davey?"

"Hmm?" he answered, down to sucking air out of the cup.

"Damn it, knock it off! Now you owe me an answer. It's the least you can do since I went and got dinner."

Setting the empty cup down on the table, Starsky exclaimed, "Yeah, a dinner I paid for!"

Bree let out a long sigh, then said, "Would you just please tell me? I can always go ask Hutch, you know," she added.

He knew Bree was fully capable of carrying out her threat. It wasn't like a stranger asking to know about a part of his past he'd just as well never think about again. Bree was family, and well, she had definitely earned the right to know a few personal things about him.

"Okay, you win. Just realize this isn't something that _ever_ gets mentioned to Mom."

Bree used her index finger and drew two slanted lines across her chest. "I promise," she said.

"A few years ago, I had to shoot a sixteen year old kid." Starsky paused, trying not to let too many details emerge from his memory. "Long story short, some nutcase by the name of Prudholm killed two cops trying to get me to quit the force because of it. He got locked up in a hospital for the insane, but someone screwed up and he got released. By then I was seeing Terri, and I guess you know the rest of the story."

"Oh God, Davey. You mean he not only killed Terri but…" Bree didn't have to finish. She settled back in her seat and waited for Starsky to finish.

"Yeah, well…for the last couple of weeks, some psycho's been taking pot shots at cops. He's left some notes, basically blaming me." Bree started to lean forward, but Starsky sensed what she was going to ask. "No, it's not Prudholm. He's still in prison. Anyway, 'couple of days ago, two officers were shot and wounded. Today, one got killed."

_Oh shit. _Bree couldn't even begin to understand the insanity behind someone who'd do that. What was worse, she knew no amount of talking could make what David was going through any more bearable. "What does he want? Do you know?" she quietly asked.

Starsky shrugged. "Same thing Prudholm did, I guess. For me to turn in my badge."

Bree reached across the table and grabbed a hold of his hand. Squeezing it, she said, "I'm sorry, Davey. I don't know why things like this have to happen to people who deserve it the least." As a second thought, she added, "So, what does Hutch know? You asked earlier what he'd told me."

"Hutch and another detective are working with me and my partner on the case. Our captain called Dobey and had him send them over because Hutch and I had been on the first couple of calls."

Bree shuddered at the way David casually said 'partner' without meaning Hutch. If trying to understand what had split the two friends up in the first place wasn't hard enough, now there was more crap piling on top of the whole situation. Honestly, she had no idea of what was keeping David sane, and knowing the extremes he was capable of was starting to terrify her.

"Well, that's good, I mean, you've got Hutch there to help you now." Receiving an intense glare as her answer, Bree remarked, "Whether you like it or not, there's people who've known you for a long time that care about you. Just because you've had a lot of shit dumped on you, doesn't mean for one second that you're any less valuable, especially to me and Hutch." Bree stopped, knowing they'd had this conversation before. "Just don't ever forget, we're here anytime you need us."

Starsky gave her a reassuring smile. "Point taken. We done with the lecture now?"

"Yeah, you bastard," she blithely said. Looking at the clock, Bree got another idea. "There's still time to catch the last movie at the Cineplex."

"Are you kidding? I'm tired. You want to see a movie, turn on the TV."

"I'm not taking 'no' for an answer," she persisted.

"Bree…" Suddenly, he understood her game plan. "I _don't_ need a babysitter."

"That's okay. My rates are cheap. C'mon," she said, rising and grabbing his arm. "I'll drive. You just have to sit…and pay for the movie."

"Humph! I guess you'll want popcorn, too," Starsky muttered as he got up.

"Of course, and with _extra_ butter."

TBC


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

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By the time he waited in traffic backed up from an accident, and finally found a place to park at the precinct, Starsky was in the worst mood possible. It was bad enough he was already running late when he left the house. With all the soda, popcorn and raisinettes he and Bree had eaten at the movie theatre, he'd spent half the night on a sugar high and the other half trying to find something that would relieve his upset stomach. When the alarm clock went off just after he finally fell asleep, Starsky latched onto it and hurled the buzzing object against the wall, putting at least one thing out of its misery.

As he came into the squad room, the air was thick with an overwhelming sense of avoidance. Starsky couldn't really blame anyone for what they were thinking about him. He was probably about as welcome now as an overdue bill. Surprised not to see Hutch or Babcock around, Starsky came up to Trevor seated at their desk and sat down across from him.

"'Morning," Starsky mumbled.

Trevor lifted his head and studied his partner's face for a moment. "Do you ever get any sleep, or is 'wiped out' your natural shade?" he quipped.

"Yeah, you should be talkin'. Looked in a mirror lately yourself?"

"Yes, I have. So what's your excuse?"

"That's great. Now you're a comedian." Scratching the side of his head, Starsky continued. "So where's the other half of our team? I thought I'd be the last one here this morning."

"Don't know for sure. Maybe they're running a little late for the same reason you are," Trevor said, lifting an eyebrow.

Starsky produced a smirk. "I'll admit I was with a woman last night, a very beautiful one at that."

"So does this mean I get to look forward to a wedding invitation?"

"No, I wouldn't count on it. She's my sister."

"I didn't even know you had a sister."

"Breanna. She goes by Bree. I've also got a younger brother, Nick."

"You're lucky, a sister and a brother. I was an only child, but I always wished I could've had a brother. If for nothing else, just to have someone to blame things on," Trevor said, with a devilish grin. "You up for grabbing some coffee downstairs?"

"You know, you should list 'mind reader' as one of your special talents," Starsky said, getting out of his chair.

Trevor stood up and headed towards the door, following his partner. Once they got out in the hallway, he said, "David, there's something I need to tell you."

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By the time they got down to the cafeteria, Trevor had filled Starsky in on the phone call he received the night before. Starsky hadn't said a word and remained deep in thought until they sat down at a table with their coffee cups.

"So you've got no idea how this guy got a hold of your phone number," Starsky asked, finally breaking his silence.

"No. That's just it. My phone number hasn't been listed for ages. The only ones who have it are relatives, close friends and people at work."

Starsky stared into the black liquid in his cup, fleetingly comparing it to the current state of his life. "I don't know what to say, Trevor. I'll be watching your back every second, though. They won't get you without going through me first."

"Dave, all that asshole's doing is blowing smoke. The only reason he called is that he wants to screw with our heads. He thinks he's invincible. Well, he's wrong."

Solemnly, Starsky cast his eyes up. "He's shot three cops, Trevor. Killed one. He might not be invincible, but he's hardly Cinderella, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let him start taking pot shots at you."

"Hey, I'm not helpless, you know. We'll nail him. He's starting to make mistakes now. Like calling me. It shows he's willing to come out of hiding, or maybe even out of his comfort zone. We just gotta be ready when he makes his next mistake."

Before Starsky had a chance to dispute Trevor's optimism, he saw Hutch approach their table. Babcock wasn't far behind him, carrying a tray that seemed loaded with a sampling of everything the cafeteria offered for breakfast. As Starsky looked back at Hutch, his gaze was met with a neutral greeting. But underneath the composed appearance, Starsky could see a mountain of concern, waiting to erupt like a volcano.

As the two sat down, Starsky turned his attention to the food on Babcock's plate, and found himself eying several of the items, particularly the link sausages. But a queasy feeling in his stomach put a quick end to the cravings.

"So," Trevor said, speaking to Hutch and Babcock, "How was the drive up this morning?"

"That fuckin' freeway," Babcock began, "One little fender bender and it shuts down five lanes of traffic."

Starsky snorted. "Must have been the same wreck that I ran into. Thought I'd never get to work."

"Well, at least we won't have to worry about fighting that traffic for a while," Babcock said.

Just before he took another sip of coffee, Starsky froze, certain he had missed something. "How's that?" he asked.

"Oh, I forgot to mention," interrupted Trevor. "After you left last night, I invited Ken and Michael to stay at my place for awhile. Save 'em from having to make that commute every day."

Starsky wasn't surprised. Knowing Trevor, once he mentioned about the spare bedrooms and Mary's fine cooking, there was no way two bachelors could turn down his invitation. Starsky had already started looking for a new apartment closer to work, but for now he decided to keep that to himself. "Yeah, that morning drive can be anything but relaxing," he replied.

"There's another thing I haven't mentioned," Trevor added, directing the conversation back towards Hutch and Babcock. "Last night I got a phone call. I think it was from our suspect. Didn't say much—just trying to rattle some chains. The thing is, my phone number's unlisted. David and I were wondering how he got it when you showed up."

Starsky glanced at Hutch again, this time peering over the coffee cup as he held it at eye level. Hutch's answering look was white hot.

_We need to talk. _

_I'm fine. _

_Don't shut me out, Starsk._

_Later, okay?_

"Well, that's interesting," Babcock said. "Did you pick up anything in particular? Age? An accent?"

"No, nothing specific. Sounded like he was middle-aged. White. No noticeable accent, but then I can barely tell the difference between a Midwesterner and a New Yorker."

"Oh, that's awful reassuring there, partner," Starsky said, emphasizing his own brogue.

Sporting a smile and then finishing off his coffee, Trevor pulled a folded piece of paper out of his jacket. He placed it on the table in front of Hutch and Babcock. "Last night the station got a couple of possible tips on our sniper. McMillan wants you to check out one of the callers at this address." As the two detectives looked at the note, Trevor said, "If you don't know how to get there, I can give you directions."

"No, we can find it," Hutch assured him.

"Good. Dave and I will go talk to the other one. When you're clear, call us on TAC two and we'll meet up somewhere and compare notes."

"Sounds good," replied Hutch. As he and Babcock got up to leave, Hutch gave Starsky an intense last look.

_Be careful._

_You, too._

_._

On their way to the call, Trevor casually glanced at his partner. Starsky had been fairly quiet, not unusual given the circumstances, but Trevor had been waiting for the two of them to be alone. He needed to talk, and hoped David would be willing to discuss some things that were probably safer left unsaid.

"The other day…" Trevor began, then waited until he had Starsky's attention.

"Yeah?" Starsky answered, looking at his partner.

"When McMillan called us into his office with Ken and Michael, he mentioned a guy by the name of Prudholm. Who is he to you?"

A dismal sigh left Starsky as he stared back out of his window. He didn't think he'd be explaining the story again so soon. But during the next few minutes, he told Trevor the whole account, starting back several years earlier when he had busted Prudholm's son. Trevor listened intently, especially at the end when Starsky talked about what occurred after he and Hutch busted into the warehouse on the motorbike.

"So he was begging you to shoot him again?" Trevor asked in amazement.

"Yeah." _Worthless piece of shit._ "I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. That bastard deserved to spend the next hundred years locked up in an insane asylum."

"Do you ever wonder what would've happened if you'd shot him in the first place?"

Starsky whipped his head and stared at Trevor as if he had just accused him of murder. "What'd you just say?" he said in a raspy voice.

"I'm saying when a monster like that causes you to lose self control, and you're given a choice, what would you do?"

Leaning back in his seat, Starsky murmured, "We're not out here to act as vigilantes. You know that."

"I don't want to hear the party line, David. We've both worked in this profession long enough to know we can't sit here and honestly say there's never been anyone we haven't hated enough to kill. What about the guy that ordered the hit on you?"

"What about him!?" Starsky snapped. "He's rotting in jail, hopefully with a roommate named 'Bubba' and the only thing to look forward to every day is going to the bathroom by himself. That's certainly worse than just being dead."

"Okay, I hear you. But tell me," Trevor persisted, "Under different circumstances, with just you and a partner you'd trust your life to, would you do it?"

"That's not a fair question," Starsky grumbled. "I can't answer that. Right now, I could say 'yes,' but with a gun in my hand and some unarmed bastard in front of me…just where are you goin' with all of this?"

Having reached their destination, Trevor pulled over and parked the Granada along the curb in front of the house, then shut off the engine. "What I'm getting at," he continued, "is how much do you trust your partner? If you wanted to kill someone, and your partner would cover for you, could you take someone's life?"

Starsky wanted to say 'no.' Saying it would end the discussion with no loss of respect on either side. It would also show that he was an honorable human being, someone who held human life sacred. It would also be a blatant lie. Even after all these years, Starsky still felt the reason he didn't shoot Prudholm at the old zoo was because he wanted to keep Hutch from jeopardizing his career. And there was no doubt in his mind; Hutch would have gone along, lied through his teeth if he'd had to. Maybe not willingly, but he would've done it.

"Okay. Call me a 'bastard.'" Starsky reached down for the door handle, but then stopped. "How'd you know that's what I had in mind yesterday," he asked, speaking barely above a whisper. When Trevor didn't respond, Starsky curtly remarked, "So you got your answer—we done playing truth or consequences now?"

Trevor grabbed him by the shoulder, momentarily preventing Starsky from getting out. "I had a partner once," he began. "A good partner. Probably every bit as close to him as you are with Ken. He was married, had a little girl about nine years old. One day, she didn't come home after school. We found her two days later, left out in a junkyard. She'd been raped and murdered. A week after that, my partner and I found the suspect—alone—and with no witnesses. After we had him cuffed, my partner asked me to go call it in." Trevor hesitated for a moment, then dipped his head. "I guess for some, revenge isn't what it's all cracked up to be."

Starsky had to catch his breath. Although Trevor hadn't said it in so many words, Starsky knew the suspect never made it to jail alive. "I never saw the man who used to be my partner after that," Trevor continued. "He didn't sound the same, didn't act the same. One night he called me, asking if I'd cover for him for a few hours the next day at work. Something didn't sound right, so I went over to his house. By the time I arrived, he'd shot his wife and then himself."

Starsky raised his left arm and placed it on top of Trevor's shoulders. He kept quiet, feeling the story wasn't done yet. He was right.

"That was a hard one for me to get over." Trevor smiled slightly, a reaction to keep his emotions centered, rather than an expression of joy. "I felt I was responsible for what happened to all three of those lives. I guess if it hadn't been for Mary…there would've been a fourth victim."

Starsky felt his insides cringe. His understanding of what Trevor had disclosed was mixed in with his own painful memories and wanting to give some compassion to his partner. He tightened his grip on Trevor's back, then swallowed, trying to wet his dry throat before speaking.

"That wasn't your fault, Trevor," he managed. "You couldn't have known all that was gonna happen. I know...sometimes the pain is too much, especially when you can't get an answer to 'why?'" Starsky looked over at his partner, wondering if there was anything more he could say or do to ease the hurt. "Did you ever talk to anybody?" he asked.

"You mean a shrink?" Starsky nodded his head. "No. Wasn't the thing to do back then. Everyone just expected you to suck it up and go on with your life. I got by. It took a long time to get used to another partner, though." Trevor tossed a smile over at his passenger. "Seemed like every minute I found myself comparing the two, wondering if one did something better than the other and vice versa."

Trevor took the keys out of the ignition and cradled them in his hand. "I wanted to tell you that, David, because I see a lot of what me and my partner had in you and Ken. I'm not saying one of you is going to lose his marbles, but it's hard to find someone that you completely trust, especially in this profession." Turning his attention from the keys back to Starsky, Trevor continued. "I've never asked why you transferred over to this precinct. Frankly, it isn't any of my business. But I've seen you and Ken when you're together, and what you have is special. Hell, it's more than special, it's love. Very few people are blessed with that, David. We can't control all the crap that happens to us, but sometimes it gets in the way of noticing the good that's around. I like working with you, and if you think you're doing the right thing by coming here, then great. But I hope for everyone concerned, that you're not just trying to run away from something you can't find an answer to, because I don't think you're going to find it here."

Opening his door, Trevor started to step out. Starsky strengthened his grip, making Trevor stop. "Hey, thanks," he said.

Trevor acknowledged him with a brief nod, then got out of the car. The loud crack of a rifle shot split the air, its echo falling silent right after a loud thud.

Instinctively, Starsky hunched down inside the car, simultaneously drawing his weapon. He watched as Trevor feebly reached for the open door, then collapsed onto the ground. Within a matter of seconds, Starsky had hopped out of the car and squatted down at his partner's side. Holding his gun out towards where the shot had come from, he reached over with the opposite hand, trying to find a pulse on Trevor's neck. Across the street, Starsky heard the sound of a car peeling out, but the vehicle was in the alley, his view of it hidden by the houses out front.

Relieved to feel a heartbeat, Starsky reached into the Granada and snatched the radio mike.

"Baker Four to dispatch! Officer down!"

"_Copy Baker Four. What's your location?"_

"Shit!" Starsky almost panicked when he realized he didn't know which street they were on. He tried to look for a street sign, but they were too far away from the nearest intersection. He gazed down at Trevor, torn between wanting to stay and needing to leave.

"_Baker Four, I didn't copy. What's your location?"_

"Trevor, hold on…I'll be right back." Starsky got up, then almost fainted with relief when he saw a woman step out of one of the nearby houses.

After getting the address from her and relaying his location, Starsky knelt back down beside Trevor. He saw the entrance hole torn in the jacket, right next to the shoulder blade. Easing Trevor onto his side, Starsky flinched when he saw the slick, bright red stain on the front of the polyester shirt.

Sitting down on the pavement, Starsky reached under Trevor's arms and gently pulled him onto his lap. "Hang on, partner. Cavalry's comin'," he said, trying to keep his voice calm.

Trevor let out a soft moan, then partially opened his eyes. "Dave?" came the soft reply.

"Yeah, I'm right here. You're gonna be fine. Just hang on, okay?"

"Want you…tell Mary…" Trevor's eyes closed. His body shuddered, then settled heavily on Starsky.

The sound of an approaching siren registered only long enough for Starsky to bend down closer to Trevor's ear. "Hear that, Trev? It's the good guys."

Hutch tore out of the car as soon as it came to a stop. He ran to the driver's side of the Granada, and stopped when he saw the two men propped up against the rear door. He slowly bent down on one knee, catching Starsky's attention. The hopeless look on the brunet's face told Hutch everything he needed to know at the moment. He reached out and placed a hand on Starsky's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Starsk."

.

The scene on the street looked as if a major disaster had taken place. There were half a dozen squad cars, two ambulances, a handful of undercover cars—and a coroner's wagon. Hutch finished talking to a uniformed officer, then slowly turned and walked over to the nearest black-and-white. As he approached the open door on the passenger side, he studied the expression on the near catatonic man waiting inside. Starsky had been there for almost an hour, sitting absolutely still and staring at the prone body under a blanket beside the Granada.

Resting his arm on the patrol car's roof, Hutch leaned in towards the interior. "Hey," he said. "How're you doing?"

Unresponsive eyes kept staring straight ahead, keeping the forlorn look on Starsky's face company. Just before Hutch started to ask another question, a sad reply came. "How much longer they gonna keep him lyin' out there?"

"They're almost done." Hutch raised his head, searching for McMillan's location. After spotting the man, Hutch turned back to Starsky. "Captain's fixing to go up to the house and tell Mary what happened…"

Instantly, Starsky seemed to come out of his stupor. "No!" he hollered, then pushed himself out of the car.

"Starsky…?"

"No, Hutch!" Starsky locked onto Hutch's eyes, and in a softer voice, said, "I've got to tell her. Trevor…wanted me to."

"Okay, buddy. I'll tell McMillan." Hutch started to turn to leave, then looked back at Starsky. "But I'm goin' with you."

Starsky gazed at the expressive face, then nodded. Hutch walked over to where McMillan was standing and, after talking for a few moments, returned to the patrol car with the captain at his side.

"You sure you want to do this, Sergeant?" McMillan asked flatly.

"Yes sir," Starsky replied.

The captain glanced down at Starsky's shirt, blanching at the stain down by his stomach. "Then I'd suggest you close up your jacket before we get there."

Following McMillan's gaze, Starsky looked down at his shirt. He hadn't noticed the blood smear until now. He fumbled with the zipper, and after it was fastened he secured the two flaps high enough to cover the stain.

Hutch put a hand on Starsky's shoulder. "I'll go let Babcock know that we're leaving. He can catch a ride with a patrol unit back to the precinct when he's done."

As soon as Hutch left, McMillan turned to Starsky. "Mary's not going to take this very well. I've known her and Trevor for almost fifteen years. I know you were his partner, but…"

"Captain," Starsky broke in, "I'm doing this because it's what Trevor wanted. And whether I knew him for ten days or ten years doesn't matter. You're right, I was his partner, and as his partner it's _**my**_ responsibility to tell his wife why he ain't coming home."

McMillan stared at the detective, then stuffed a hand into his pant pocket and dug out a set of car keys. "Okay, Sergeant. I'll follow you and Hutchinson over to the house."

Shaken, Starsky watched the captain walk away. He looked around for Hutch's LTD, and upon finding it, slowly made his way with the blond over to the vehicle.

.

The two cars pulled into Trevor's driveway and parked. As Hutch got out, he took a moment to admire the beautifully landscaped yard and how it enhanced the home's stucco exterior. He watched as Starsky slowly exited and couldn't help but feel for his friend. With his head held high, Starsky walked stiffly around the Ford and waited briefly until McMillan joined them. The group then went up to the front door.

Mary heard someone knocking as she finished setting out the china on the dining table. Trevor had told her the night before that they'd be having guests for a few days and she was in the middle of preparing dinner. When she opened the door, she recognized Captain McMillan and David, but wasn't sure who the third man was. She started to wonder if Trevor was still out in the driveway, but as she scanned past the men standing on the porch she didn't see him. When she looked back at David, the cold expression on his face instantly sent a chill through her body. She then glanced over at McMillan and saw the same look.

As her eyes came back to Starsky, she suddenly grasped the horrid reality of why they were there. "No! No, no, no…oh, my God! Please! Oh, pleeaasse!"

Starsky immediately grabbed hold of her as the impact took effect. For several minutes they stood on the porch as Mary poured out her anguish and tightly hung onto Starsky. Eventually, she was led back into the living room and eased onto the couch.

Over the next few hours, friends were called to come over and arrangements made so that Mary would have as few things to do as possible in the coming days. At one point, she had Starsky accompany her into the master bedroom as she wanted to speak to him alone. Once there, Mary asked him to tell her everything. With as much detail as Starsky felt she could tolerate, he spoke about Trevor's last few hours, including the phone call he got the previous night. When Starsky was done, Mary remained seated on the bed, as quiet as she'd been while he was talking.

After a few minutes, she broke her silence and said, "I know it meant the world to Trevor that you were there…holding him," her voice still shaky. "He thought very highly of you, David. The last man he worked with…well, Trevor told me several times about how uncomfortable he was around him. Trevor would talk about calls they would go on and how his partner would just race off and not ask Trevor for help. He was so scared because he knew he'd be responsible if anything happened." Mary stopped as she dabbed the tears reforming in her eyes. "But he felt safe with you, David, and for someone that worked as many years as he did, you should take that as a real compliment."

Starsky lowered his head. "But I didn't keep him safe...and I don't know how I'll ever make that up to you."

"David," Mary said, as she stood up, "There is no doubt in my mind that you would have risked your life to have saved his. And what you need to believe is that he would have done the same for you. I wish he were here," she softly moaned, "but not if that meant you had to take his place. Trevor would never want that." With that, Mary opened her arms and the two embraced each other.

When they separated, Starsky stated, "I'll find the guy responsible, I promise."

Shaking her head, Mary said, "He'll have his judgment, but please, don't get yourself hurt. Don't let him win by taking another decent person off of this earth. That's how you can honor Trevor."

Starsky gave a quick nod, then wrapped his arms around her once more.

_Sorry, Mary, but if it takes me dying to get him, I will._

TBC


	12. Chapter 12

Thanks everyone, for hanging in there! Also, I really appreciate the reviews, thank you!

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Chapter 12

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As evening fell on the Woods' residence, Starsky eased off of the couch and went into the kitchen. Although he hated to admit it, the nightly chest aches were starting to peak and he knew he should leave, but he'd been waiting for the right moment to excuse himself from Mary's guests and catch Hutch alone so they could talk. As Starsky entered, he found the blond filling a glass from the kitchen faucet.

Hutch saw him come in, and after taking a drink of water, said, "You look pretty beat. Maybe it's time to go home, huh?"

For once, Starsky couldn't argue with him. He'd been grateful that Hutch had stuck around for this long, especially considering that he'd never met Mary, barely knew Trevor, and still had his share of report writing to do.

"Can you give me a ride back to the station?" When Hutch gave him a puzzled look, Starsky explained, "My car's still down there. I'm callin' it a day."

Hutch placed the glass in the sink, then stepped closer to Starsky. "I'm thinking maybe someone should stay with you tonight."

"That someone being you?" Starsky snapped. Before Hutch could answer, he added, "Oh God, I'm sorry, Hutch. I'm just really tired…"

"Starsk," Hutch said, "you've done all you can for Trevor right now. Tomorrow's another day, but you need to get some rest. I'll be happy to stay over at your place, if that's okay."

Starsky's eyes met his with a plaintive gaze. "I'm not planning on offing myself…buddy."

"Didn't say you were." Hutch watched him for a moment and when no reply came, said, "Well, you comin' with me or not?"

Too exhausted to argue, Starsky gave Hutch a halfhearted wave and went out to the living room. After letting Mary know he'd be back the following evening, Starsky plodded out to the car with Hutch and slid into the passenger seat. Not able to hide his discomfort anymore, he curled up and tried to rest his head against the window.

While Starsky dozed, Hutch drove straight to the apartment. Going to the precinct to get the Torino would have taken him miles out of the way, and besides, Babcock had already been shuttled back home and Starsky was looking like he needed a massive dose of morphine.

Almost an hour later, Hutch pulled into the driveway on Ridgeway. By then Starsky was practically dead to the world and Hutch reached over regretfully and woke him up. Painfully, the brunet stirred and glanced out the window.

"Where are we…oh, my place."

"Yeah, home sweet home."

Hutch got out, opened the back door, and grabbed a duffle bag from the rear seat. He then walked to the front of the car, but noticed that Starsky hadn't gotten out yet. He set the bag on the hood and went over to check his passenger. Starsky was still in the same position, eyes opened, but with a pathetic look on his face. Hutch opened the door and knelt beside the car.

"Are you going to come inside, or sleep out here?" he asked. When he didn't get a response, his eyes traveled down to Starsky's chest. The quick and shallow rhythm of his breathing meant only one thing. "C'mon, let's you get inside," Hutch said firmly.

By the time Hutch got him into the apartment and situated on the couch, Starsky was pale and shaky. Hutch located the bottle of pain pills and grabbed a wet wash cloth and a glass of water, then joined Starsky in the living room. He removed the jacket, holster and bloodied shirt, laying the first two on the coffee table and tossing the latter as far away as possible. Hutch noticed a large bruise on the side of Starsky's chest and wondered how it got there, knowing he wouldn't get an answer if he asked. Starsky swallowed the medication, then clumsily kicked off his shoes and stretched out on the couch. Hutch sat down beside him and carefully dabbed the clammy face with the washcloth. The familiar routine of caring for his partner came back quickly. It reminded him of those endless nights in the hospital when Starsky would suffer through setbacks or have a hard time coping with the pain.

Since leaving the car, though, Starsky hadn't said a word, and now, much to Hutch's concern, just stared vacantly up at the ceiling. On the positive side, his face did appear more relaxed and his breathing had slowed. Hutch got up and went into the kitchen. He traded the glass of water for milk and returned to Starsky's side.

"Here, drink some of this," he said. "It'll keep your stomach settled when the medication kicks in."

Starsky boringly studied the glass, but finally took a hold of it and managed a few sips. He then pushed it back into Hutch's hand, and drew in a shaky breath. Hutch set the drink on the coffee table, then picked up the wash cloth and lightly brushed it across Starsky's forehead. His eyelids looked so tired and heavy, but Starsky didn't seem to want to close them.

Hutch glanced over towards the bedroom and said, "You ready to crawl into bed?"

Starsky replied with a barely perceptible head shake, then shifted his body until he was lying more on his side. Recognizing the intent, Hutch stood, preparing to get a blanket. A soft voice stopped him before he got across the room.

"Hutch?"

Turning, Hutch said, "Yeah, buddy?"

Tired indigo eyes sought out his. "…why?"

Hutch let his gaze drop. He walked back to the couch and sat down on the chair beside it. Leaning forward, he rested his arms on his thighs. "I wish I had an answer for you, Starsk," he said longingly, "but I don't. Trevor was a good cop. He didn't deserve what happened to him and neither do you. Just get some sleep, and tomorrow we'll do what we do best and find that son-of-a-bitch."

Starsky stared at him blankly, but then finally closed his eyes and settled his head on the throw pillow. Hutch retrieved a blanket and gently draped it over the sleeping form. He watched Starsky for several minutes, then, convinced the drugs had taken effect, got up and headed for the bedroom—but not before grabbing the holstered gun on the table.

.

Hutch woke to the sounds of someone stumbling around in the living room. He looked at the alarm clock and then dragged himself out of bed. Shuffling out of the bedroom, he watched as Starsky came out of the kitchen holding a coffee mug. Obviously, he hadn't gotten any restful sleep; appearing almost too exhausted to stand.

"'Mornin'," Hutch muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

Starsky grunted an acknowledgment and took a sip out of his cup.

"How're you feelin'?" ventured Hutch, unsure what to expect.

"You tell me. It seems you know more about how I feel than I do."

Hutch shook his head, and started towards the kitchen. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, looking for a coffee cup.

"Where'd you hide my gun, Hutch?"

Forgoing any explanation, Hutch motioned towards the bedroom. "In there," he said, "stuck in between the mattresses."

Starsky looked at him incredulously, then stomped off to his room. As Hutch watched him walk by, he took another look at the ugly bruise on Starsky's side. After pouring some coffee, he sat down at the table and waited for Starsky to return. When he did, he was securing the last button on a new shirt he'd slipped on. Starsky's attention was drawn to a piece of clothing on the floor, and as he bent down to pick it up, his expression changed. He gathered the soiled shirt up off of the floor and took it to the kitchen, depositing it in the trash can.

Reclaiming the cup he had left on the counter, Starsky said blandly, "There's a couple of eggs in the fridge, along with some bread if you want to make toast."

"How about just stopping somewhere for breakfast on our way to work?" Hutch said, then added, "We've got plenty of time."

"Whatever," came the reply as Starsky sat down at the table. "I'm not hungry."

Hutch was tempted to launch into his protective mode, but thought better of it. "Good, then I won't have to worry about you stealing food off of my plate."

Caught unprepared by Hutch's comment, Starsky let out a slight chuckle.

.

Almost two hours later, the LTD arrived at the precinct. Starsky wasn't looking forward to the start of his shift, but was glad that Hutch had talked him into eating something at the restaurant. As they walked into the squad room, conversations around them died down. Seeing Babcock was already there, Starsky and Hutch headed over to him. Before they got much past the obligatory greetings, McMillan leaned out of his office.

"Detective…I need to see you," he said, shooting a quick glance at Starsky. "Privately."

Hutch eyed Starsky, who gave him a nod and then followed the captain.

"Close the door," ordered McMillan as he sat behind his desk. After Starsky complied, the captain said, "Have a seat."

Starsky slowly sat down in the nearest chair, feeling increasingly apprehensive.

Exhaling loudly, McMillan leaned forward. "Dave, needless to say, the whole precinct is upset over what happened yesterday, especially your coworkers."

Starsky inwardly cringed at the inference to coworkers. Since coming to work there, no one but Trevor had ever given him anything more than a curious stare.

"I don't know how else to say this," McMillan went on, "but unless Command sends me another officer to take Trevor's place, I've got no other choice but to assign you over to Burglary Division."

Stunned, Starsky said, "Excuse me, Captain, but I think I missed something there."

"What I'm saying is, I don't have a partner for you to work with. And no one in my department works solo."

"So put me with some other team until you get another replacement," Starsky persisted, the desperation starting to leak through.

"That's just it…no one has volunteered to have you join them. I could make it an order, but I tend to follow my men's wishes on something like this."

Starsky couldn't believe what McMillan was saying. He was being blackballed, and from fellow cops. Feeling rage beginning to build inside, Starsky spouted, "Are you telling me that my _coworkers_ feel I'm responsible for Trevor gettin' killed? That my workin' with them means the same thing is gonna happen?"

"You lose that attitude right now, Sergeant, or you'll find yourself bounced out of this precinct permanently!" McMillan took a moment to compose himself, then said, "That's not at all how they feel. You're too close to this investigation, period. No one, including myself, wants a vengeful cop doing something that might hinder the arrest and conviction of the person responsible."

Starsky drew back. He was hurt at the thought his captain would even consider it a possibility. Forgoing the temptation to protect his pride and lash out at McMillan, throwing away his career in the process, he grudgingly realized that Dobey would probably have acted the same way. But Starsky needed to remain involved in this case—he owed Trevor that.

Throwing out a last option, Starsky asked, "What if I paired up with Hutch and Babcock?"

McMillan stared at him, then said, "Detectives Hutchinson and Babcock are not my men, Sergeant. I'll let you finish the shift with them today, but as of tomorrow, they go back to their precinct and you'll report to Captain Harding in Burglary."

Reluctantly, Starsky got up and started towards the door. Before he opened it, McMillan said, "Detective—you have my guarantee that we'll find that bastard and make sure he ends up on death row."

As Starsky went back out into the squad room, he had a hard time believing that.

Hutch saw his partner come out of McMillan's office, looking like he'd just gotten fired. Ordinarily, that would've been an absurd thought, but given recent events, Hutch began to fear it might have actually happened. As Starsky made his way over, Hutch rose from his chair.

"What'd the captain have to say?" he asked.

Starsky looked at Hutch, then at Babcock. "C'mon, let's get outta here. I'll tell you when we get to the car."

"You're coming with us?" Babcock asked, then cast his eyes downward. "Sorry," he remarked, "wasn't thinking."

"S'okay," Starsky said.

Once the three men made it outside, Starsky filled his cohorts in on what McMillan had said.

"How can that son-of-a-bitch think he's going to find this asshole without us working this case?" Hutch yelled, more pissed at the fact that no one in the squad room wanted to work with Starsky.

"Maybe he thinks we'd be too much like the Three Musketeers," said Starsky, sarcastically.

Babcock turned to Hutch. "You think McMillan would keep us on the case if we asked?"

Both Starsky and Hutch looked at him hotly, but Hutch was the first one to reply. "Babcock, what'd you eat for breakfast this morning? Fruit Loops?"

Embarrassed, Babcock started to reply, but this time Starsky jumped in. "Hey," he said, focusing on Hutch, "He might have a point. Besides, toting around a third wheel today isn't gonna look good on the street."

"Starsky," Hutch started, "we all need be working on this case."

Placing both hands on his hips, Starsky glanced at the ground. "No, I'm the bait, remember? Whatever that sicko's doin', it's because he's trying to get back at me." Starsky looked over at the Torino parked in the lot, then back at Hutch. "Why don't you two go back over to the scene, see if there's anything that got missed."

"Starsky," Hutch said forcibly, as he watched the man start to leave, "We need to stick together."

"Look…" Starsky began, his face becoming tight, "I've got one day, and last time I checked, this was still my precinct." Seeing the surprised looks, Starsky added, "We'd just be wasting time not splitting up, okay? Call me if you find something."

With that, Starsky took off for his car. Babcock watched him leave, then turned to Hutch and said, "Guess it's just you and me." Not getting a reply, he said, "Hey, Blondie. C'mon. Can't exactly solve a crime just standing out here in the parking lot."

Hutch broke off staring at Starsky's retreating form. "Yeah. Can't exactly force ourselves where we're not wanted," he said bitterly.

"He's just doing what he thinks is right, Hutch. Can't blame him for that."

"I can if he gets his head blown off," Hutch muttered to himself as he and Babcock made their way to the LTD.

.

If any other day at work had gone as fast as this one, Starsky would have been the happiest guy on earth. He couldn't remember when he had gone to so many places, tracking down one person after another; unless he counted the time Hutch got poisoned with botulism or contracted that deadly virus. Somehow, things had worked out back then—Hutch survived and the bad guys got dealt with. But today wasn't shaping up to be like that. The few snitches Trevor had introduced him to were far from being fountains of information. Even if they'd known more, Starsky doubted they would've trusted him enough to talk. He even managed to chase down a couple of his own snitches, but they weren't any help either.

Now, sitting in the Torino parked outside of the last bar he had checked, Starsky looked at the darkening sky and thought about his promise to drop by and visit Mary. He wanted to, but knew it would take him off of the street for a while. He wondered if Hutch and Babcock had found anything since he last spoke to them a couple of hours before. At that time, they weren't having any better luck than he was. In frustration, Starsky lashed out and hit the steering wheel, only to get a sore hand and a painful twinge in his chest. Even though it didn't hurt that bad, it was enough to unleash the floodgate of emotion he had been keeping locked up since yesterday. Crossing his arm over the steering wheel, Starsky buried his head and let the heartache pour out.

He was so tired of this damned job. It only wanted to constantly take and not give anymore. Thoughts of all kinds began to race through his mind. Like why didn't he shoot Prudholm the first or even the second time? Why didn't Hutch kill Gunther? How was he going to find Trevor's killer—and what he would do if he did find him…alone…and with no witnesses?

After a few minutes, Starsky leaned back in his seat, the constriction on his chest making it too uncomfortable to stay where he was. Maybe this last go around with getting hurt by Gunther was an indication that he was running out of chances to depend on his body anymore. He'd never thought of himself as a quitter, but no matter how strong of a drive he had, he couldn't chase down a killer with only his mind. And even if he did eventually catch this scumbag, how long would it take for the next one to appear? What if this time, Hutch was the victim? Is that what he was going to do the rest of his life, go around and act like some vengeful renegade?

Sadly, Starsky realized that the cycle would never end. There would always be a steady supply of cops and people who wanted to kill them. The only thing to stop it from happening to him would be to either quit or die in the process. Perhaps, in some crazy way, maybe trying to hunt down Trevor's killer was destined to be his final curtain call. Funny, because he'd always assumed he'd be dying to either protect or avenge Hutch.

And what about Hutch?

_He'll be okay._

But what if he's not?

…_he'll do the right thing. He's a survivor…_

The sudden beeping from the police radio yanked Starsky out of his pensive mood.

"_Baker Four, this is Dispatch."_

Grabbing the mike, Starsky responded. "Go ahead, Dispatch."

"_Are you still in service? I had you off at seventeen-hundred."_

Starsky looked at his watch, surprised to see it was already past seven o'clock. "Yeah, just doing a little late investigating," he said.

"_I have a call for you. Are you ready to copy the phone number?" _

"Patch me through, dispatch."

"_Copy Baker Four."_

Starsky squirmed in his seat. He was sure it was McMillan, probably wondering why he was out working by himself. After listening to a few clicks, the voice that came over on the line sounded nothing like his boss.

"_This Starsky?" _

The voice sounded distorted, but it was definitely a male's. "Yeah, who wants to know?" Starsky answered cautiously.

"_You want to find out who shot your partner, be at the old mill warehouse on Monroe and Baker in fifteen minutes. And come alone."_

Before Starsky had a chance to say anything, the caller hung up. Still clutching the mike, Starsky thought about calling Hutch, but he didn't want to take the chance of spooking this guy. Another thought crossed his mind--that this could be the shooter. If worse came to worse, Starsky needed to come up with a way to let someone know where he had gone. Opening the glove box, he found something that would work. On the back of the car registration receipt, he wrote "Meet at warehouse—Monroe and Baker, 7:30 pm" and finished by adding the date. He placed the paper back in the glove box, then started up the Torino.

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Across town, Hutch and Babcock walked out of yet another smoke-filled bar. They had just spoken to a snitch claiming to know who was shooting cops, but he was only a junkie wanting a few bucks. Babcock held his wrist towards a street lamp, trying to see his watch. Hutch asked how late it was.

"It's about twenty 'til eight," Babcock said, scanning the people walking on the sidewalk in front of them.

Hutch rubbed his face with both hands. They had been out on the street for almost twelve hours and were no closer to finding a lead than when they started their shift. Casting a tired look at Babcock, Hutch asked, "You ready to grab a bite?"

"Yeah, maybe just a sandwich. If I eat too much, it makes me sleepy."

Hutch empathized with the comment. "Okay. Let's give Starsky a call, first. He might be up at Trevor's house. He told Mary last night he'd stop by."

"Hey, Hutch," Babcock announced, getting his partner's attention, "What's Starsky going to do now?"

Hutch stopped at the driver's door and peered over the roof at Babcock. "What do you mean?"

"Well, this morning he didn't sound too excited about going over to Burglary," Babcock explained. "I guess I was wondering if you think he'll be coming back to the Ninth?"

"I don't know," Hutch said quietly, opening his door. "Hard to say what's going through his mind lately."

.

Starsky pulled into the alley and parked about a block away from the warehouse. The commercial area was quiet and dark this time of the night. _Just perfect for someone wanting to blow my head off._ He drew the Beretta out of its holster and pulled the slide back, chambering a round. After slipping it back inside of his jacket, he glanced in the rearview mirror and then once again through the front windshield. Satisfied that no one was around, he got out. Starsky slowly made his way to the rear entrance of the warehouse, periodically checking behind him for the slightest indication of a setup.

As he approached the back of the building, he studied the exterior, looking for any windows or fire escapes. The building wasn't very big. It had one story, but was almost as tall if it had two floors. Starsky tried the door, and found it unlocked. Scanning the alley one last time, he drew his gun and silently stepped inside. A few overhead lights were on, hazily illuminating some areas and leaving the rest in darkness. Along with the unlocked door, the partial lighting seemed to signal that someone was here and waiting for him.

Starsky glanced around him; this part of the building looked like it was used as a storage area. The rows of stacked containers gave the floor an almost maze-like appearance. Carefully, Starsky started to thread his way deeper into the building, trying to keep his back up against anything solid and firm. Eventually, he reached a point where there was nothing but empty space in front of him.

Starsky stopped and stood very still. Every one of his senses was telling him there was something very wrong here. The rational part of his brain was begging him to turn around and just get out. But he couldn't. If he left now, he might be giving up a chance to find out something that would lead him to Trevor's killer. Starsky scanned the entire area again, but nothing had changed. No movement, no nothing. The sound of his heart beating was nearly deafening, but it was the only thing he could hear—that and the voices screaming in his head insisting he better listen to his instincts.

Finally making a decision, Starsky grabbed his gun with both hands and, bending his arms, brought the weapon up closer to him. He peered around the corner of the stacked crates he was leaning against. Seeing nothing threatening, he took a few steps forward and started to turn to his right. The metal click of a revolver hammer being pulled back stopped him cold.

"Well, look what we have here," a man's voice echoed out, loud and clear in the still air. "I've been waiting a long time to pick up where we left off…"

TBC


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **Please be warned this chapter deals with a scene involving adult sexual assault. If this bothers you, please don't read it.

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Chapter 13

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Starsky stood frozen, afraid to even move his eyes. Some things you never forget, certain voices and times you almost died among those. What he'd just heard conjured up memories of an event that only Gunther had surpassed.

"What'sa matter, cop? Forget about me already?"

No, he hadn't forgotten. In the last few seconds, the memory of every single injury and wound Frankie Suko had inflicted on him came rushing back. And now, they were reuniting in the same way they'd met initially. Only this time, Starsky still had his gun.

"I know what you're thinking, asshole, so drop the piece. Now!"

He could tell the direction the voice was coming from, slightly behind him and to his left. If he was fast enough, he could swing around and fire—get a shot off before he got hit. Maybe he'd get lucky…

The sound of the gunshot barely registered before he felt the whoosh of air along the side of his head. Startled, he fanned out both arms, holding on to the Beretta just a moment longer before he lowered the weapon and let it fall to the ground.

"Still got that same, shitty attitude, don't ya?" Suko taunted.

Starsky kept staring straight ahead, aware that the voice was getting closer, but there was nothing he could do, at least for the moment.

"As I remember, you're pretty good with handcuffs. Why don't you get those out? Slowly, of course, and put 'em on…in the back."

With a resigned sigh, Starsky reached in his back pocket and pulled out the metal bracelets. He didn't need his instincts to tell him he was in a bad spot, but before this psycho was done with him, maybe he'd get some answers. Clicking the cuffs onto one wrist and then the other, Starsky dropped his shoulders and prepared to be reacquainted with his captor.

A hard shove sent him face first into a wall of stacked wooden crates. He could feel the cold, blunt end of a metal object as it was jammed under the back of his skull—the barrel of a gun, no doubt. A leg was thrust in between his, spreading them out and back. Then, smoothly, one hand slipped in and snaked around his torso, feeling under his jacket and around his waist. A pair of fingers dug into his front pockets, finding the handcuff key in one. As the frisking came to an end, the probing hands pulled back. Starsky heard a faint grunt and then a quick sound of metal scraping the floor.

"Still carrying the same gun, huh? Well, since you like it so much, maybe I can find a good place to _stick _it."

As a slight chuckle came from behind him, Starsky hardly saw the humor in the statement. Suddenly, his shoulder was grabbed and he was spun around. The man before him hadn't changed much in the past year. He was still just as ugly. Starsky let his gaze drop down to the revolver pointed at him. Better to look at the gun than this prick's face, he thought.

"So, detective…" Suko began, stringing out the last word, "Surprised to see me? I'll have to admit, I'm surprised to see you. I thought I plugged you good the last time we were together."

Starsky held the impulse to throw out a derisive comment, but instead choose to stare contemptuously at the thug.

"What's a matter, Star-sky? Your pride screwed up a bit? This is twice now I've been able to snatch your ass up without so much as a peep from you. And you think you're a bad mother fucker." When Starsky didn't reply, Suko reached out with his free hand and grabbed a fistful of shirt collar. "You're already starting to piss me off. Don't you remember what I told you about doing that?"

"Yeah, I remember," Starsky said dryly, still glaring at him. "And I also remember kicking your ass with my hands cuffed. You forget that, Suko!?"

Frankie Suko's eyes narrowed. He remembered that time in a small basement room, when Starsky had knocked him down with a flying kick. While working as an enforcer for the now deceased Benjamin Rothman, Suko was in the middle of using the cop as a punching bag when Starsky'd caught him at a weak moment. He would've killed the pig right then and there if Rothman hadn't called him off. But this time, Suko wasn't going to give him the chance at landing another lucky blow.

In a flash, Suko pivoted and threw the unsuspecting cop down hard on his back. The impact knocked the air out of Starsky's lungs, and as he struggled to catch his breath, Suko pinned him down on the floor by straddling both legs across his hips. A malicious grin appeared on the thug's face as he holstered his gun and began to slowly unbutton Starsky's shirt.

The pain reverberating through his chest kept Starsky from calming his trembling body, but no doubt his attacker saw it more as a reaction to his foreplay. When the last button was undone, Suko pulled both halves of the shirt back, exposing the brunet's chest. Even to Starsky, the reaction came as a surprise.

"Holy mother! Who'd you piss off?"

Starsky turned his head. The thought of even some sicko being repulsed by his scarred body was too much. If he could have grabbed a gun he might have saved Suko the trouble of killing him. But as Starsky felt the touch of a finger trace over one of his surgical incisions, he knew the humiliation wasn't over yet.

"Damn, what happened when you tried to drink somethin'? You must've sprung leaks all over the place." Suko's hand then traveled south, stopping to examine some older scars on the right side. "I think these belong to me," he said proudly. "I bet every time you look at those you think about how you got them, huh?"

As Suko's hand settled on the front of the blue jeans and began to tug at the belt buckle, Starsky attempted to stall for time.

"So were you the one who wrote those notes?" Starsky asked, trying to wriggle away.

"I ain't been sending you any letters, pig. You know how I'd show my love to you, don't you?" Suko crooned, as he unsnapped the top button and pulled on the jeans' zipper.

Starsky stopped struggling for a moment and shook his head. "You didn't write them?" he gasped. "But you said you knew who killed my partner."

"I ain't said shit. And what if I did kill him? You gonna arrest me?" Suko scooted down some and dug his fingers under each side of the opened waistband. He then yanked down as hard as he could, slipping the pants free of Starsky's groin.

Swallowing hard, Starsky struggled to concentrate on finding out what he could from Suko, instead of the violation about to take place. "Look, I can't stop you from doin'…what you're gonna do, but I've gotta know…" Starsky almost yelped as Suko reached under the exposed briefs and grabbed a hold of his cock. "Did you kill my partner or didn't you, you sick piece of shit!?" he shouted.

"Oh, I love it when you talk dirty," Suko moaned, as he started to work his fingers around the soft shaft, kneading it firmly.

As Starsky felt his penis being fondled, he tensed his muscles and made one last attempt to jerk away from his captor. But Suko easily adjusted to the feeble effort by squeezing his thighs closer together. Keeping one hand wrapped tightly around the rod of flesh, he reached out with the other and took hold of Starsky's throat.

Looking into the cop's eyes, Suko studied the defiant stare that he hated so much. He wanted to squeeze Starsky's throat as hard as the other anatomy part he had control of. But he didn't want to rush having fun with an old enemy.

Suko glared at Starsky and whispered, "Last time we got interrupted at this point." Leaning closer, he added, "I promise you, that won't be the case tonight."

Starsky flinched as Suko clamped down and started to slowly twist his enslaved cock. The spiking pain from that and the pressure Suko's arm was putting on his chest was quickly sending him off into a torturous state.

"Get off my chest," Starsky wheezed, starting to suffocate as his lungs were compressed.

Suko ordinarily would have thought the cop was planning a move, but the wet sheen developing on Starsky's face made him ease up on the stranglehold.

Taking a few labored breaths, Starsky still couldn't get enough air to relieve the pressure that was now migrating to his head. "I said, get the fuck off my chest!" Starsky hollered, his last words coming out with more air than sound.

Reluctantly, Suko let go of Starsky's throat and leaned back a bit. Disappointed at the interruption, Suko hissed, "What'sa matter? You turned into a whuss now?"

Panting hard, Starsky spouted, "Look it, you want to fuck me, then fuck me! You want to kill me…then do it! Just tell me if you blew my partner away!"

Enraged, Suko released his hold between Starsky's legs. Using both hands, he grabbed him by the jacket and, rising up, threw the pig against the wooden crates behind them. Suko shoved a knee into Starsky's groin, then pressed his weight forward, effectively trapping his prisoner. Standing face to face, Suko butted up to the cop's chest.

"You want to know the truth? Okay, you prick. That cop that got plugged? Must've been eating too many donuts for breakfast because when I shoot to miss, I usually _miss._

Starsky stared back, totally in shock. "What're you talkin' about, shooting to _miss_?"

Suko sneered at him. "You don't have a clue, do you? Your buddy was right; you ain't worth shit. This was all planned to screw you, but I don't see why someone went to the trouble. You're a big enough fuck up just left on your own."

"Who wanted to screw me?" Starsky growled.

"Oh, besides me?" Suko pulled back, eying his captive like a prime rib steak. "You're my reward—my personal play toy." Releasing one hand, Suko slid it down Starsky's chest, and then slowly guided it over to a nipple. He circled the palm around the tiny bud, letting it tickle his skin, relishing the springy, furry pelt that covered the firm muscle.

Starsky cringed at the unwelcome touch. Part of his body wanted to respond in ecstasy, the other part was not only repulsed, but waging war against the fiery cramping taking over in his chest. As Suko's hand began to explore down towards his abdomen, Starsky wanted nothing more than to get the goon to focus on something else.

"Look, tell me who set me up. I've got a right to at least know that." Starsky spewed out the last words with disdain. The last thing he wanted was to have to beg this scum for anything.

"You ain't got shit," Suko barked, jabbing his hand back under the briefs. "Except this," he added, as Starsky felt the coarse fondling begin again.

"Fuck it, you pervert!" Starsky flexed his leg and tried to knee Suko in the groin, but they were too close.

Suko took his free arm and jabbed it under Starsky's chin, forcing his head back. As he pressed hard across the cop's throat, he said, "You into pain? Why didn't you just say so?" Suko then viciously seized hold of Starsky's testicles, squeezing them until he rose up on his toes.

Starsky held his cry, but it only added to the turmoil inside his chest that wanted to escape. With nothing left to fight with, he glared at his attacker and struggling to find his voice, said, "Either you tell me, right now, what I want to know, or so help me, I guarantee you won't get a second of enjoyment out of this!"

With a snort, Suko stopped his assault. "You're just full of piss, aren't you? You know, your dick ain't that big. Maybe that explains why you're so short on brains, too." Suddenly, Starsky was spun around and shoved against the wall behind him, the rough, wooden surface scraping the side of his face. His cuffed hands were forced high on his back, sending fiery spikes of pain through his shoulders. A hand slid in underneath the back waistband of his jeans, grabbing the material and pulling it down, along with the briefs, past his thighs.

Starsky closed his eyes and tried to will himself someplace peaceful. Away from perverts and pain. Someplace where he could comfortably relax and talk to people who cared about him.

His dad.

Terri.

Trevor.

Behind him, he heard the soft opening of a zipper and the rustle of clothing. Starsky arched back, but the pressure being forced on his arms held him in the vulnerable position. As he felt his rear cheeks being separated by a blunt rod of flesh, Starsky hurried his mind to find a safe place.

.

Hutch jammed the radio mike back in its holder.

"Damn it, Starsky! Where the hell are you?" he yelled, panic more than frustration starting to take over.

"Dispatch have any idea on where he might be?" Babcock asked wearily, not expecting an answer.

A slight head shake was all Hutch offered in response. He had phoned Trevor's house when he couldn't get Starsky on the radio, but Mary hadn't heard anything from him all day. The call he just made to dispatch only confirmed that an unknown male phoned in to speak to Starsky about an hour ago, and that was the last anyone heard from him.

Hutch picked the mike back up, and Babcock listened to his partner's side of the conversation. "Yes, that's correct. I want an APB put out on him immediately. Right, as a missing officer. You have his plate number? Uh-huh, 5-3-7 Ocean Nora Nora. Okay, and call me immediately if anyone sees him."

"You know, he may just be checking out another lead somewhere," Babcock suggested.

"He could be doing a lot of things, but I don't like the fact that no one's heard from him since he got that message."

Babcock stretched his arm out and rested his wrist on the steering wheel as the car kept traveling down the street. He glanced over at Hutch, who appeared to be lost in thought. "So, where do you want to go?" he asked.

After a long moment, Hutch said, "I don't know…let's go talk to the dispatcher who took that call. Maybe there's something we weren't told."

"Sounds good to me," Babcock said. "I've got to check on a few things myself."

.

Starsky tried again to take in a deep breath of air, but just couldn't do it. For what felt like an eternity, Suko had been thrusting up against him, grunting and groaning and cursing his own dick for failing to complete his act of humiliation. The combination of pain, exhaustion and fear had nearly depleted Starsky's last resources and was beginning to push him over the edge into unconsciousness. He wondered if Suko would mercifully kill him now or, being the bastard he was, hold off until later. In a few more moments, it wasn't going to matter. Starsky felt a wave of dizziness hit, sending his head spinning. He wasn't even sure he'd heard another voice in the room until the first words were already spoken.

"So, you two boys having fun?"

Suko froze in mid stroke. "What the fuck!?" he hollered. "What the hell are you doin' here?"

"Obviously seeing more of you than what I'd planned," the visitor said.

Pushing himself off of Starsky, Suko stepped back and pulled his pants back up. With a threatening tone, he remarked, "That don't answer my question. What's goin' on?"

Starsky tried to focus on the voices, but his mind felt as uncoordinated as his body did. No longer held upright, he folded and crumpled to his knees on the floor.

"Geez, what'd you do to him?" the new arrival asked. "Fucked the shit out of him or what?"

Finished with zipping his pants, Suko grunted, "I guess your kind just don't hear too good. You said he was all mine, so what the hell does it matter?"

As more of the dialogue seeped in, Starsky worked at rejoining the living. Despite the pounding in his head, he could understand he was the topic of conversation. Curious, he looked over to see who the other person was. The voice sounded familiar—a little too familiar.

"There's been a slight change in plans," the man said, then nodded towards Starsky. "Get him uncuffed…and for God's sake, pull his pants back up."

"Get him uncuffed?" Suko walked closer to the speaker. "Just what kind of plan do you got in mind there, Einstein?" he said suspiciously.

"Have you forgotten something, Suko? _I'm_ the one calling the shots. You want your money, you'll damn well do what I tell you to do!"

"Maybe you're forgetting who you're talking to!" Suko spit out. "Now our deal was…"

"Damn it, there isn't time for this! The cops are already looking for him."

With a huff, Suko went back and knelt down by Starsky. He pushed the cop forward so he could unlock the handcuffs. After pocketing them in his jacket, Suko stood up and noticed that Starsky was looking past him, with a stunned expression. Suko turned around, and quickly discovered the object of the cop's surprise.

"What the fuck?" Suko stared in disbelief at the revolver pointed directly at him.

"Take your gun out of the holster, then toss it on the floor over here," the man ordered.

"You fuckin' double crosser! What kind of game are you playin?"

"Some would call it 'survival of the fittest.' C'mon, I haven't got all day!"

Suko pulled out his revolver and did as he was told. He should've expected this from someone smart enough to have caught him before he had a chance to leave town with a sizeable chunk of Rothman's money. What the man had proposed to Suko, though, wasn't a bad offer. In return for taking a few pot shots at cops, he'd get his freedom, half of his money, and Starsky as a sacrificial lamb. Suko had never made a deal with anyone outside of the Family, and now, as he watched his partner in crime pick up his gun, he knew why he should've stuck with that plan.

For a moment, even the crippling pain he was feeling faded as Starsky couldn't believe who had shown up. Normally, he would've been relieved to have seen him, but for now, he wasn't sure which one of the two men was supposed to be the good guy and which was the bad. What he did know was that his welfare didn't look promising with either one.

"So, Starsky," the man began, "you look a little surprised."

"Must be my day for unexpected get togethers," he managed, throwing a quick glance at Suko.

"Sorry to have to cut this party short, but your partner is once again proving he's the brains of your outfit."

Confused, Starsky said, "What'd ya mean, 'brains'…and what's Hutch got to do with this?"

"Oh come now, you act like that's the first time you've heard that. You know, I just find it totally amazing that you _ever_ made detective. Tell me, who'd you have to blow to get your shield?"

His first instinct was to leap at the man's throat, but when the signal fired from his brain, Starsky realized none of the necessary muscles were going to work. Instead, he decided to rely on the one muscle that would.

"Is that was this is all about? You havin' some inferiority complex?"

Before he could respond, Suko jumped in and said, "Hey, did you forget about something here? This ain't what we agreed to. And if you think you're gonna get away with screwing me, you might as well turn that gun the other way because you'd be doin' yourself a big favor."

Purposely aiming the revolver at the mobster, the man chided, "You think I'm scared of you? You shot and killed a cop. In this state, that'll get you a free burial."

"Well, then I'll certainly have some company, won't I?" Suko snapped back.

Starsky stopped his breathing for a moment. He stared at Suko, then at the other man. "You killed Trevor?" he gasped, not believing his own conclusion.

The man gazed at him coldly, then said, "Now, why would I want to kill a cop? Especially a decent one. You, on the other hand, are a different matter. But I'm gonna do you a big favor, Starsky. After tonight, you won't have to worry about anyone else dying on your account."

"_You're_ gonna shoot him?" Suko asked, still not sure which side of the fence his fate hung.

"Well, I guess that'll depend on who's still alive to give a statement, huh? And I'd say that means things aren't looking so good for either of you."

Starsky tried to bring his feet underneath him and get up, but the pain migrating from his chest through the rest of his body just wouldn't allow it. He locked his jaw and fiercely confronted his would-be assassin from the floor. "You tell me right now, you son-of-a-bitch…did you kill Trevor?!"

"Yeah, I killed your precious partner," the man gloated. "And you know what? It was only because I couldn't do that to Hutch. Unlike you, at least he can investigate his way out of a paper bag. But if you two hadn't been paired up, Babcock would've become your partner, and that would've wasted even more good talent. So, poor Trevor's misfortune was working with you. Pity, I'm sure he never suspected that would cost him his life."

Somehow, nothing else mattered anymore to Starsky. With his eyes locked on the man standing just a few feet away, he propelled himself to his feet. If there was one last thing he was going to do, it was to kill the bastard in front of him. Taking a last, forceful breath, he launched out at the surprised man, yelling, "Your ass is mine, Simmons!"

TBC


	14. Chapter 14

**.**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Dear friends, it is with a sad heart that I mention news of our dear favorite Captain, **Bernie Hamilton**, has passed away today, December 31, 2008. He was 80 years old. No one could have done a finer job in Captain Dobey's role and those of us in this fandom will certainly miss him tremendously. Please remember his family in your prayers. This chapter is devoted to him.

.

Chapter 14

.

Consciousness drifted into his head like a fog cloud rolling in off the water. Slowly, he became aware of the cold of the cement floor beneath him and the eerie silence that permeated his surroundings. Warily, Starsky opened his eyes, only to be greeted by hazy images. Lying on his back, he stared at the ceiling until the light above him came into focus. He briefly wondered what he was doing on the floor, and then, remembering, tried to quickly shift over on his side. The pain that ripped through his body instantly stopped his actions. Carefully, he moved his head, inspecting the area in front and on both sides, but failed to see anyone.

Taking some slow breaths, he tried to suppress the mounting queasiness by wrapping his arms around his stomach. What his inner arm encountered along his right side startled him. He slipped a hand in underneath the jacket and felt the hard butt of a handgun sticking out from his holster. Pulling the weapon out, he saw it was the Beretta. Nervously, he stuck the gun back into its sheath, then forced himself up onto his knees. The back of his head was throbbing, and as he rested a hand there, discovered a very sore lump. When the last of his dizziness drifted away, he took another glance around. There, on the floor, was a body lying in an unnatural position that only death could impose.

Starsky shuffled over on his hands and knees and discovered it was Simmons. Two bullet wounds to the chest appeared to be the likely cause of his demise, however Starsky found it hard at that moment to feel any remorse. What he was feeling, though, was an irrepressible urge to either vomit or pass out; he just wasn't sure which one would happen first. He managed to crawl a few feet away, then utterly spent, lay down on his side using an arm as a pillow. He hoped the sickness would ease so he could make it back to the car. But for now, all he could do was remain stuck on the floor and pretend everything was going to be okay.

.

Hutch careened the LTD around the last corner, pulling up with a squeal of tires behind the black-and-white parked in the alley. He and Babcock scrambled out of the car and met the two officers standing by an unmistakable red and white Ford. The officers had reported finding the car apparently abandoned and stated they had checked around the area, but neither had found any sign of Starsky in the still dark and deserted commercial block.

Using a spare key, Hutch unlocked the Torino and started searching inside.

Leaning in through the opened door, Babcock asked, "What are you looking for?"

As he sifted through the items on the dashboard and floor, Hutch responded, "Something, anything…maybe nothing." He reached over and popped open the glove box. Pulling out the stack of paperwork inside, Hutch thumbed through every piece and then shoved them all back in. Just before closing the door, he picked one slip up again, noticing the handwriting on its surface. There was no doubt it was Starsky's scribbling and Hutch immediately showed the address to one of the uniformed officers.

"He must mean the old mill warehouse," the cop replied. Pointing down the alley, he added, "It's that brick building about halfway down on the left."

All four took off towards the structure, with Hutch arriving at the back door first. Seeing that it was unlocked, he drew his gun and carefully stepped inside, followed closely by Babcock. Hearing nothing, and seeing little else, Hutch had one of the patrol officers join him, and with the aid of a flashlight, they quickly made their way through the dimly lit interior. As the group approached a more open area, a single overhead light illuminated two bodies lying on the floor. Hutch's heart sank as he recognized Starsky's clothing.

He rushed over to his fallen partner and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, buddy, you all right?" he asked softly, grateful to see Starsky was still breathing.

A barely perceptible moan emerged as Hutch started patting around Starsky's torso looking for any wounds. Beside him, he heard Babcock utter a loud gasp and Hutch glanced over to see what the man had found. He felt an instant chill when he realized it was Simmons.

"Get an ambulance!" Hutch yelled at the uniformed men.

Before they could leave, Babcock moaned, "He's dead, Hutch. Simmons is dead."

Hutch shifted his gaze from the dead detective back to Babcock. "I'm sorry, Mike," he said. Turning to the officers behind him, he said, "Go on and get a crime team down here, and we still need an ambulance."

As the patrolmen left, Hutch focused his attention on Starsky. He squeezed his friend's shoulder a little tighter and repeated, "Hey, buddy, c'mon. Show me those baby blues."

Starsky wrinkled his face, this time letting out a louder moan. His eyelids parted slightly, then blinked several times. Hutch could see that his skin was pale and sweaty, and wondered if his partner was injured somewhere he hadn't discovered yet.

"Are you hit any place?" he asked, noticing for the first time that Starsky's shirt was opened.

A limp hand rose up, and tried to swat away Hutch's inspection. "'M fine. Just…hurts."

"What hurts, Starsk?"

"…chest…" Starsky suddenly arched back and groaned in pain, "Oh God…pills, Hutch…need 'em."

"What's he talking about?" Babcock exclaimed, turning towards Hutch. "Is he on drugs?"

"It's none of your business, Babcock," Hutch grunted. He maneuvered his body so he could lift Starsky's head onto his lap. Sparing Babcock a quick glance, Hutch explained, "That's not what he meant. He needs muscle relaxers…for his chest, that's all."

Babcock gave him a hard stare, then said, "I hope he's not an addict, Hutch. Because I've got a dead partner over here and Starsky's probably the only one who can say how he got that way."

"Don't you think I know that?" Hutch shot back. "As soon as the ambulance gets here, they can give him something."

"No…no ambulance, 'utch. Please."

"Sorry, pal. You're in no shape to object." Hutch smoothed the curls back from Starsky's forehead, but knew his ministrations weren't helping to ease the pain.

"Seems like he's able to talk right now," Babcock mumbled under his breath.

Hearing the comment, Hutch said, "Babcock, look…I'm sorry about Simmons. But there's nothing we can do until a crime team gets here. Starsky's pretty sick right now. I doubt if he can even tell us anything useful." Softening his tone, he added, "I promise, we'll find out who did this."

"Sure, Hutch. Whatever you say." Babcock got up and walked a short distance away.

Hutch peered down at the semi-conscious man resting beside him. He felt bad about not being able to direct his attentions to Babcock. The man just lost a partner, and that had to hurt, but his own partner looked like death warmed over. Scanning over the room, Hutch began to wonder what really did happen. Who was Starsky supposed to be meeting? Why was Simmons here? And since Starsky didn't appear to be seriously wounded, how did Simmons end up dead and not him also?

A short time later, the ambulance arrived, followed closely by a crime scene team. After a quick examination, the paramedics decided to take Starsky to the hospital.

"Hutch, don't need…stupid hospital," Starsky muttered, trying to remove the oxygen mask from his face.

"They just want to check you out, Starsky. Don't fight 'em on this, okay?" Hutch pleaded.

"No!" Starsky yelled, succeeding in yanking the mask away. He tried to get off of the stretcher, but the constriction in his chest immediately caused him to gasp for air.

Hutch forcibly pushed him down, relieved that one of the medics was quickly replacing the needed equipment. "This isn't up for debate, buddy. You're going and that's it."

"I'm not a kid…" Starsky wheezed out, "…grown man."

"Well, then start acting like one," Hutch admonished.

.

Leaving Babcock in charge of the scene, Hutch rode in the ambulance to the hospital. While Starsky was being treated in the ER, Hutch called Dobey and informed him of Simmons' death. The captain said he'd be on his way, but wanted to stop and talk to Babcock first, knowing that Simmons' family needed to be notified. After he hung up, Hutch went back to the waiting room, for once certain that this would be one time he didn't have to worry about Starsky not surviving.

But after an hour had passed, Hutch nervously began to pace around the small room, his mind conjuring up all sorts of bad scenarios. Five minutes later, a doctor finally entered through the double swinging doors.

"Are you waiting on David Starsky?" he asked wearily.

"Yes, I'm his partner, Ken Hutchinson. How's he doing?"

"He's in satisfactory condition. He told me you'd want to know everything and it'd be useless to try and keep anything confidential from you."

Hutch let go of a smile. No doubt about it; his partner was feeling just fine. "Can I see him?" he asked.

"In a minute. First, I'd like to discuss some things with you. Let's step into the family room, shall we?"

The two men walked over to a secluded room off of the main lobby. Hutch felt a bit apprehensive, convinced the place was only used to deliver unwelcome news in private.

After closing the door, the doctor began by saying, "I'm sure you're familiar with the extent of Mr. Starsky's injuries from this shooting that took place…last May was it?"

"Yes," Hutch said flatly. He could have added the precise date and time.

"Now, David tells me that his physician is aware that he's been having problems associated with the buildup of internal scar tissue from his wounds."

"Yes, go on." Hutch said, as he continued to listen to all this for the first time.

"From what I've observed in David and from his description of the symptoms he's been experiencing, I've informed him that I can't recommend he go back to work until this problem is addressed."

"So what are you proposing then?"

Looking warily at the detective, the doctor replied, "I think at the very least he needs to have surgery."

"Surgery?" Hutch hated to sound surprised, but he couldn't hide his anxiety anymore.

"Yes. From what I can tell, he has a large buildup of adhesions around his incision sites and, most likely, his wounds also. This scar tissue is interfering with the normal elasticity of his lungs and other internal structures. It's something that's only going to get worse with time."

"Well, what did Star…what was his decision?"

The doctor gave Hutch a wide smirk. "In his own words, or mine?"

"That's okay, I get the picture. Can I see him now?"

"Of course, but only for a few minutes. He also has a tender spot on the back of his skull. It's hard to say what caused it and David doesn't seem to know either. Since he did lose consciousness, I'm keeping him overnight for observation, but he should be able to go home tomorrow morning. Just go in through the double doors. He's in exam room number three."

"Thanks, doc."

Hutch approached the doorway to Starsky's room, and peeked in. His partner seemed to be resting comfortably, although he had oxygen going in through a nasal cannula and at least two IVs in his arm. The most disconcerting thing, though, was the heart monitor that was beeping quietly next to the wall, eerily reminding Hutch of another place and time. Taking a deep breath, he went in and stood by the bedside. He placed a hand on Starsky's free arm, and watched as the eyelids cracked open just enough to show patches of dark blue.

"Hey, how're ya doin'?"

Starsky offered a slight smile. "Okay, I guess. You talk to the doc?"

"Yeah." Hutch paused for a long moment. "How come you didn't tell me?"

"Didn't seem to be an issue."

"Starsky…" Stopping to let his emotions calm down, Hutch continued, "I know having more surgery isn't what you want, but…"

"Hutch, no lectures, alright? When the time's right, I'll get it taken care of."

"Maybe you weren't listening when he said he wasn't going to release you to go back to work."

"No, the bozo said he didn't think I should. But that's just his opinion and who's he gonna tell?"

"Who's he going to…Are you serious? This is your health we're talking about, Starsky. Not some damn hangnail!"

"Look. Trevor's funeral is in two days, and I'm gonna be there." Starsky paused, then said reflectively, "I can't believe Simmons shot him."

"What!?"

In response to Hutch's outburst, Starsky remarked, "He admitted it. Right in front of us…"

"Us?" When his partner's eyes glanced away from him, Hutch repeated, "Who else was there, Starsky?"

"Does it matter?" he bit back, then realized he'd have to eventually include the other witness. "Suko. Frankie Suko."

Hutch recoiled at the mention of the name, remembering what the scum had done to his partner. "Starsky, why was Suko there and how did Simmons get mixed in with him?"

"I don't know. But I remember Suko telling him they had a deal…"

As Starsky's face dropped, Hutch gently prodded him. "What deal? What'd he say?"

"Just a deal," he said, with a tone of finality.

Hutch glanced at the clock, mindful of the doctor's time limit. "Look, you get some rest, okay? I'll be back first thing in the morning."

"Sure. See-ya."

.

Hutch went back out into the waiting room, and was relieved to see his captain sitting in the lobby. As Dobey got up from his seat, he asked, "How is he?"

"He's fine. Doctor's keeping him overnight for observation, though. He said he was concerned about an injury to the back of his head. Captain—Starsky says that Simmons admitted to killing Trevor Woods."

Dobey's eyes instantly grew wide. "A cop killing another cop! What kind of drugs are they giving him back there, Hutchinson?"

"It gets worse. Starsky says Frank Suko was also there."

The shock on Dobey's face was replaced by disgust. The captain sat back down and rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. Looking up at Hutch, he said, "IA's all over this. Not only do we have a dead cop, but now you're telling me there's a mobster involved? You know they're gonna want a statement from both you and Starsky."

"They can talk to me whenever, but Starsky's not seeing anyone tonight. The doctor wants him to rest."

"That's fine. C'mon, I'll give you a ride back over. Do you have Starsky's gun?"

Hutch was instantly suspicious. "Why do you need his gun?"

"Simmons was shot, Hutch, and not with a water pistol. We need to rule his weapon out, the sooner the better."

"Sure, okay," he said flatly. "I had the hospital lock it up with the rest of his stuff. I'll go get it."

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When Dobey and Hutch arrived at the warehouse, there were still several police vehicles parked in the alley and a variety of personnel going about their jobs. Many of the faces seemed unfamiliar to Hutch until he spotted two men standing by the coroner's wagon. As his jaw tightened and clinched his teeth together, Hutch approached them like a gladiator entering an arena.

"Well, Sergeant Hutchinson, how nice of you to make your appearance," Simonetti stated. He lifted his hand to check his watch, then added, "And before midnight, even. I'm actually impressed."

"Yeah, the pleasure's all mine, Simonetti," Hutch said, his voice soaked in sarcasm. He glanced over at the man's partner, and murmured, "That goes for you, too, Dryden."

Before the conversation could turn ugly, Dobey said, "Yes, well now that the formalities are over with, I'm sure Detective Hutchinson is prepared to give you a statement."

"Fine. We've already spoken to Detective Babcock. He left a little while ago to go talk to Simmons' family," Dryden said. "So, Hutchinson, care to meet us back at the precinct, or we'd be happy to give you a ride."

The fake sincerity of Dryden's comment wasn't lost on Hutch. "No thanks. I've got my own way to get there."

"Suit yourself. Oh, and do you have Detective Starsky's weapon? We'll be needing that."

Sternly, Hutch answered, "Yeah, I've got it and I'll have it for you when I get there."

The two investigators eyed Hutch with contempt then turned and walked away. Letting out a long sigh, Hutch watched them leave. Without looking at Dobey, he said, "Is it just me, or are they thinking that Starsky killed Simmons?"

Startled, Dobey responded, "Even for Simonetti and Dryden, that's quite a leap. But now that you mention it, I guess I wouldn't put it past them." Taking a quick glance at his detective, Dobey said, "You, uh, want me to keep you company when you talk to them?"

Hutch broke off his surveillance. "No, I can handle those turkeys."

"Just watch yourself. And make sure you don't give 'em any reason to take this personal. You get my drift?"

"I hear ya, Captain. I'll be on my best behavior."

Dobey let out a snort. "Right," he said softly.

.

An hour later, Hutch was sitting in one of the interview rooms at the precinct. He had given Simonetti and Dryden the rundown on how he and Babcock ended up at the warehouse and what they'd found once they arrived. So far the questioning was progressing smoothly, but Hutch was keeping his guard up. He didn't trust the two IA men as far as he could spit.

"So detective, tell me what Sergeant Starsky told you once you located him inside the building," Simonetti asked, looking every bit like an innocent child.

Hutch leaned back in his chair. "Well, he was kinda out of it…"

"Out of it? Would you elaborate on that?" The innocent look immediately vanished from Simonetti's face.

"What I meant was, he looked like he was in shock."

"So he was in shock, and out of it. But he still responded to your questions, though, correct?"

"Yeah," Hutch murmured softly.

"What was that? I couldn't hear you, detective," Simonetti pressed.

Louder now, Hutch said, "Yes, he answered my questions."

"And what did he say?"

Hutch stared across the room, trying to recall Starsky's exact words. "He mentioned that he was having some pain in his chest."

"And?"

It was apparent what Simonetti wanted Hutch to say. Obviously, Babcock had mentioned Starsky's remark about the pills and the IA officer was going to milk it for all he could.

"He was hurting and he just wanted something for the pain. That's it. Nothing more, nothing less." Hutch stared coldly at Simonetti. He hoped the investigator was smart enough to realize the topic was a dead issue.

"Okay, sergeant, let's move on," Dryden chimed in, as he picked up the questioning. "You were with Starsky at the hospital. Did you have a chance to ask him anything more about what happened?"

"Starsky said that Simmons admitted to killing Detective Woods."

The look of shock on the two IA men's faces nearly matched that of Dobey's. "Detective Simmons admitted to killing another cop? That is what you just said, right?"

Hutch acknowledged Dryden with a nod of his head.

Simonetti and Dryden exchanged glances, then Simonetti remarked, "Well, that's quite a convenient statement, considering Simmons isn't here to defend himself."

Nearly leaping out of his chair, Hutch growled, "Are you calling my partner a liar?"

"No. Of course not, Hutchinson," Simonetti crooned. "Was there anything else he _happened_ to mention?"

"There was another person there…Frank Suko."

"Frank Suko?" Simonetti exclaimed. "Wasn't he one of Benjamin Rothman's enforcers?"

Hutch was almost impressed with the investigator's memory. "Yes, he was."

"How interesting that this suspect, whom the entire department has been trying to locate for over a year, now suddenly shows up in a warehouse with your partner and a dead cop."

Hutch couldn't control his temper anymore. He shot out of the chair and, pointing a finger at Simonetti, said, "You know, instead of trying to make Starsky out as some lying bastard, why don't you consider the possibility that Simmons was dirty and involved with a known mobster?"

"My, my, aren't we taking this personally? Don't worry, Hutchinson. You can be assured this case will be investigated from every angle possible."

"It better be, Simonetti. If that's all, gentlemen, I have a big day planned tomorrow." With that, Hutch grabbed his jacket off of his chair and marched out of the room.

Seeing him leave, Dryden turned to his partner and said, "He may be right. We might be dealing with a dirty cop."

"Could be. But which one, Starsky or Simmons?" A mischievous grin appeared on Simonetti's face. "Or maybe both?"

TBC


	15. Chapter 15

Happy New Year everyone! I'm not able to view my stats lately for some reason, so I hope everyone is still enjoying the story.

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Chapter 15

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The muffled sounds of people talking roused Starsky from a restless sleep. The voices weren't totally to blame, though. Recurring nightmares had plagued him all night long, persisting even after a sedative shot from one of the nurses. He not only felt tired, but dopey from the drug's effect. Realizing that he was, after all, in a hospital, Starsky forced his heavy eyelids to open. The first person he saw was certainly a surprise.

"Oh look, he's awake," Bree said to the doctor standing beside her. "How're you doing, bro?"

Mustering a smile, Starsky mumbled, "Good enough to go home and get some real sleep."

Bree glanced at the man beside her. "Oh yeah, he sounds perfectly normal."

"Okay, Mr. Starsky," the doctor said as he stuck a stethoscope in his ears and leaned over, "let's see if your heart agrees with your sister's assessment."

While the doctor concentrated on his efforts, Starsky took a good look at Bree. She looked tired and worried. The puffy eyes and light grey shadows above her cheeks plainly showed the signs of stress and not enough rest_. She's looked that way for a long time now. Probably wondering why I keep doing this._

As the doctor straightened, he announced, "Well, what I'm hearing sounds normal, so I'll go ahead and get your discharge papers ready. Just make sure you follow all of the directions, okay, officer? Otherwise, be prepared to become an inmate here again in the _very_ near future."

"He will, Doctor. I'll make sure of it."

"Alright, then. Good luck to you both."

The doctor gave Bree a quick wink and left the room. Starsky watched him leave, then turned to Bree. With a sarcastic tone, he said, "And just who made you boss?"

"Mom did. A long time ago. You just don't remember."

Starsky let out a huff, then looked around the room, searching for a clock. Not finding one, he asked, "What time is it?"

"A little before eight. Do you feel like eating something? They brought some breakfast by earlier, but you were sleeping and I didn't want to wake you."

"How long have you been here?" Starsky asked, knowing that his sister usually preferred sleeping in late.

Bree shifted her gaze away momentarily, then said, "Since late last night. Hutch called and told me what happened. He was going to come back here and sit with you, but I told him I'd do it. He sounded pretty beat."

Settling his head back on the pillow, Starsky sighed. He hated people needing to sacrifice things for his sake. "You didn't have to do that, Hutch neither. I wasn't hurt, you know. Stupid doctor only wanted to make a few more bucks."

Moving to a chair, Bree sat down. "You haven't seen Doctor Phillips yet, have you?" she said softly.

"Bree, don't start…" Starsky stopped, thankfully catching himself before he said something Bree didn't deserve.

"Hutch said you were really hurting bad, Davey. Why aren't you doing something about it? What's got you so scared?"

Starsky turned his head away. "I'm not scared," he muttered. "Doctors don't always know what's best." He lifted his free arm and draped it over his forehead. Then, out of frustration, he slapped it down hard on the mattress. Starsky gazed at Bree, upset at the anxious look on her face. "I need to get out of here, Bree. Please. Go see if you can find out what's takin' them so long."

Bree rose hesitantly. Taking one last glance at her brother, she turned and went out into the hall.

.

Hutch slowly walked down the hall at the precinct, fully engrossed in reading a report Minnie had just handed him. According to the San Francisco Police Department, Frank Suko was wanted for questioning in a homicide there five months ago. The case was still open, but no other suspects were listed as being sought.

Minnie had asked about Starsky, but Hutch felt uncomfortable giving her anything more than the most general of answers. Her mood was unusually solemn, and tended to mirror the prevailing atmosphere in the precinct. Word had spread concerning Simmons' death, and Hutch had no doubt every kind of rumor was circulating about what had happened and why.

As Hutch entered the squad room and aimed for the coffee machine, Dobey was already pouring a cup for himself.

"Good morning."

"'Morning, Captain."

"Have you spoken to Starsky yet?"

Putting the report down on his desk, Hutch picked up a cup and had Dobey pour some coffee into it. "No, not yet. Bree stayed with him last night. I told her I'd be there around nine to pick them up."

After he set the coffee pot down, Dobey said, "Just to let you know, I spoke to Captain McMillan this morning. Trevor's funeral is scheduled for tomorrow at ten o'clock."

"Yeah, Starsky mentioned that last night." Hutch took a sip from his cup.

"He also said that until Starsky sees the department's physician, and gets a full release, he'll be on administrative leave."

Nearly choking on his coffee, Hutch gasped, "He what!?" Wiping the liquid from his chin, he continued, saying, "Captain, there's only one excuse for why he did that…"

"You can stop right there, Hutch. I've already read the initial report from IA on their interview with Babcock." Dobey paused, and after glancing around the room, silently motioned for Hutch to join him in his office. Hutch followed his superior inside and closed the door. Dobey placed his cup down on the desk and took a seat. Looking at his detective, he said, "Like I was saying, I've read their report…"

"Captain," Hutch interrupted, "What Babcock heard…"

"Hutch, right now all that matters is figuring out what happened in that warehouse. Just tell Starsky that IA is expecting him to be at their disposal before noon today." Seeing the rebellious look on Hutch's face, Dobey added, "Don't make this any harder than it has to be. If you don't want to tell Starsky then I will."

"I'll tell him." With that, Hutch made a hasty retreat from Dobey's office.

.

The warm sunshine and cloudless sky grabbed Hutch's attention for a moment as he walked towards the hospital entrance from the parking lot. The normality of the day seemed in such contrast to the events that were starting to unfold. So many questions about the previous night still remained unanswered, and deep down inside Hutch wondered if Starsky would be able to answer even some of them. He trusted his partner completely, but it was disconcerting that so many others didn't hold that same opinion at the moment.

As he entered the hospital, Hutch was surprised to see Bree waiting with Starsky in the lobby; both appeared as if they'd seen better days.

"What happened? Did they need an extra room in a hurry?" Hutch asked, paying close attention to Starsky.

"Very funny," Starsky said as he got up. "If you're done with the jokes, you can drop me off at my car."

Hutch shifted his attention to Bree, and wondered if he'd miss some heated argument. "You two eat breakfast yet?" he asked.

Ignoring Starsky's impatient huff, Bree said, "No, we haven't and I think that would be a great idea."

"Don't let me stop ya, but I need to get to work and see what's going on," Starsky announced, keeping his eyes fixed on Hutch.

"Starsk," Hutch began, "Let's all go and grab something to eat. Work can wait."

"What'dya mean by that?"

Hutch glanced at Bree, not sure whether he should continue or not. "Trust me on this. C'mon, I'll even buy."

"You know, I've got to go run to the ladies' room," Bree cut in. "I'll meet you two out front."

When she was out of earshot, Starsky grumbled, "Alright, what's going on and who's got my gun this time!?"

"McMillan's put you on administrative leave," Hutch explained, then before Starsky could react, added, "And IA's expecting you in their office before noon today."

"Oh, well that's just great. What's next? I'm gonna be charged with killing Simmons?" Starsky glared at Hutch, then as if he realized he'd just said the wrong thing, he softened his expression. "Look, I'm not hungry, and right now…right now, I just want to go and get my gun back."

"IA's got your gun, but McMillan's not letting you back on the street until you get cleared by the department's doctor."

"You all done with the good news there, buddy, or are ya still holding the best for last?"

Letting out a sigh, Hutch said, "Why don't we just take this one step at a time, okay? Talk to IA first and get them off your back. Then we'll work on getting you back on the street."

"Yeah, sure. And why don't you let me borrow a couple of lungs while you're at it?"

Brushing off the remark, Hutch replied, "C'mon, let's wait for Bree outside. Fresh air will do you good."

"Anybody ever tell you, you suck at cheering people up?"

.

A half hour later, Starsky walked into his old precinct, feeling about as comfortable as a recently declawed cat. A few people offered greetings, but most just either gave a quick smile or avoided looking at him. When he entered the Internal Affairs office, it came as no surprise that Simonetti was standing by his desk, looking as though he was expecting him.

"Detective Starsky, nice to see you well and out of the hospital," the investigator began. "I hope there wasn't any permanent damage."

Starsky smiled and said, "Yeah, and I want to thank you for all those get well cards you sent."

The grin from Simonetti's face disappeared. "Alright, Sergeant," he said as he picked up an overstuffed folder from the desk, "let's go and have a chat."

Dryden joined them, and the trio stepped into an empty interview room and sat down at the large wooden table inside. Starsky took the seat farthest away from the other two, and turning it backwards, sat down and rested his arms on the chair's back.

"How about telling us why you decided to go to the warehouse last night?" Simonetti started.

"I got a call from someone, telling me to meet him there. Said I'd find out who shot Trevor Woods."

"So, you just went over there—with no backup. Did you even tell anyone where you were going?"

"The guy said to come alone, so I came alone."

"If he'd of told you to go jump off of a cliff, would you have done that too?" Simonetti asked, incredulously.

Holding his temper back, Starsky said, "I wrote the address down and left it in my car, just in case."

"Yes, the note. We'll get back to that. Then what happened?"

"I went to the back entrance, and the door was unlocked. After I got in, I noticed there were some lights on inside, so I figured someone was waiting for me."

"Did you at least have your weapon out?"

Answering with a sneer, Starsky said, "Yes, I had my weapon drawn…but I still got surprised."

"Surprised? What do you mean?" This time it was Dryden who spoke.

"Surprised as in, the suspect came up behind me and had me give up my gun. I think it was the added request of the bullet whizzin' by my head that convinced me he was being serious."

"Go on," Dryden said flatly.

Starsky shifted a little on his seat, then answered, "Turned out it was Frank Suko. He handcuffed me and…I asked him if he killed Trevor. He said he shot a cop but it wasn't intentional."

"Wasn't intentional?" Simonetti spouted.

"He said he was trying to miss. I think he was talking about Officer Penthrum."

"Okay, so according to you, Suko's got you handcuffed and admits to shooting the officer. How does Simmons get involved in this?"

Trying to hide the discomforting memory, Starsky said, "He just showed up. Started arguing with Suko over some deal they had involving money. Next thing I know, he's got a gun pointed at Suko."

"Now hold it. You're saying that Simmons talks to Suko like they got some clandestine deal, then double-crosses him?"

"Boy, you catch on real fast," Starsky said mockingly.

Dryden cut in, saying, "Alright, what happened next?"

"More talk; I don't remember exactly," Starsky lied, then added, "but Suko accused him of killing a cop."

"And?"

"And when he didn't deny it, I asked him if he killed Trevor. That's when he admitted he shot him."

"According to you," Simonetti jabbed in.

Starsky glared at him. "Yes, according to me."

"Okay. So how is it Simmons ends up dead, you not handcuffed, and Frank Suko vanishes like a ghost?"

"I don't know," Starsky mumbled, glancing down at the floor.

"You don't know? C'mon, Starsky! Who do you think you're dealing with here?" yelled Simonetti.

"You really want me to tell you?"

Slamming his hand on the desk, Simonetti growled, "Here's what I think, Detective. Simmons found out about your dirty little secret…"

"My dirty little secret!?" Starsky hollered as he drew back.

"Your narcotic addiction. Taking three slugs in the chest causes a lot of damage and, I'm sure, a lot of pain too. But Simmons figured you out. Maybe he tried to blackmail you. Told you to quit or he'd go to Dobey. So you two decided to meet, and that's why you wrote the warehouse address down, in case Simmons double-crossed you."

Starsky stood up, wanting to sucker punch Simonetti like he had the last time they'd tangled. "You're out of your tiny mind!"

"Am I? At least I wouldn't be stupid enough to think someone would actually fall for a story like that. For all we know, Frank Suko is dead or moved back to the East Coast. You know, if I were you, Starsky, I'd be shopping for a good attorney."

"Take your best shot, Simonetti," Starsky said, keeping his fists clinched. As he started to head for the door, he added, "I'm done talking to you, and until you get a warrant, stay the fuck away from me."

"Oh, before you leave, Detective, we're expecting the coroner's report and ballistic test back this afternoon, so don't go planning any trips out of town."

"I'd tell you to go fuck yourself Simonetti, but you'd probably have too much fun doin' it," Starsky spouted as he yanked open the door and flew out of the room.

"I don't think he likes you," Dryden said.

Simonetti chuckled. "He hasn't even seen the best of me yet. If that ballistic test comes back the way I think it will, Detective Starsky and I will get to know each other a whole lot better."

.

Starsky hurriedly made his way to the squad room, not sure what else he could do at this point. He had no gun, but still had a badge. He didn't have a car, but as soon as he found Hutch, that problem would be taken care of.

Bits of the conversation with Simonetti still hung in his mind. Suko wasn't dead, that was certain. And he sure as hell wasn't on the East Coast. He and Hutch had been looking for him after the incident with Rothman, and a couple of times just missed arresting the scum. Then Gunther happened. Starsky had to admit, Suko had been one of the last things on his mind during the last six months, and maybe because of that, the mobster was still free to roam and strike at his pleasure. But the big question was how did Simmons get hooked up with him? Considering the fact the detective wouldn't be talking any time real soon, Starsky knew the solution lay in finding Suko—and with the way his luck was going, the sooner the better.

Entering the squad room, he was relieved to see Hutch was there and still accompanied by Bree.

As he approached the two, Hutch asked, "So how'd it go?"

"How do you think? Simonetti's out for blood again, only this time it's mine."

Hutch smiled a little, then said, "You got a plan?"

"I need to find Suko. See what kind of deal him and Simmons had," Starsky said quietly. There was no need to air his theory to the whole detective division.

Hutch seemed to understand the message. "You think you can spare an hour to grab something to eat?" he prodded.

"Oh man, you guys still haven't eaten?"

"We had a little something downstairs, but we were hoping you'd feel like joining us for some real food," Hutch replied, looking at Starsky with pleading eyes.

"Okay—you did say you were buying, right?"

Hutch glanced over at Bree. "Perfect example of selective memory. He never remembers when it's his turn to buy."

"Yeah, I hear you. I have the same problem," Bree moaned.

As she and Hutch got up to make their way out of the office, Starsky said, "Hey, I've already got enough people picking on me, I don't need the two of you joining the club."

.

While eating lunch at a nearby diner, the group tossed around different ideas on how Simmons and Suko had become acquaintances. The list wasn't long, and for now, anything that was suggested could only be considered speculation at best. Still, a connection had to exist, it would just take a lot of work or a little dumb luck to find it.

"What about the possibility of Babcock knowin' something?" Starsky asked. "As long as they were partners, you'd think he'd know if anything fishy was going on."

"It's possible," Hutch said. "I don't know, though. He never seemed like he was worried about Simmons, or anything else. The look on his face in the warehouse when he discovered…"

When Hutch didn't finish, Starsky could only assume the man was thinking how easily he could have lost a partner the way Babcock had. Not wanting to dwell on how close that scenario had come to actually happening, Starsky changed the subject.

"Suko's the only one we can be sure of that knows something," he said, locking eyes with Hutch. "He's here somewhere. How hard could it be to pick up his trail again?"

"How hard? The last time we even came close was…well, right before Gunther."

Bree, who hadn't said much during lunch, finally spoke up. "If you want to find this guy, shouldn't you be trying to use one of his own kind?"

Both men stared at her. "What?" she said. "You've never heard of 'takes one to know one?'"

TBC


	16. Chapter 16

Hi Everyone, once again, thank you for reading this and to those faithful who are posting reviews. Fanfic's stats are still not working, so the comments at least let me know people are still out there.

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Chapter 16

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"Bree, if you're thinkin' about Lou Vinetti, he's been in jail for almost a year now," Hutch said.

Casting a quick glance at Starsky, Bree remarked, "I was actually thinking of someone else."

Starsky returned Bree's look with one of concern. "It better not be the same person I'm thinking of," he warned.

"Davey, you shouldn't worry. He was a good friend of Joe's…"

"No, Bree! We don't need _that_ kind of help." Starsky shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding eye contact with either her or Hutch.

"Just who are 'we' talking about?" Hutch asked.

"No one," Starsky answered tersely.

"You haven't known him like I have, David. He's not like the rest of them."

"Bree, I don't care if he takes his mother to church on Sundays. He's a member of one of the biggest mob families…"

Starsky stopped and focused on Bree. Deep down, he knew she had a point. If anyone could locate Suko, it was Lorenzo Marcini, or 'Renzo.' The man had worked for Joe Durniak for several years, both as an enforcer and a consigliore. When Durniak was gunned down, Renzo had moved up in rank. Bree had told Starsky about how she had met him, and some of the story on how he and a few of Durniak's associates had dealt with at least one man responsible for killing their father. From other bits of what Bree revealed, it was likely that Renzo had yet to fulfill his debt to Joe Durniak's friends and acquaintances. While Starsky could've considered himself among that group, being a cop precluded him from asking for any help unless it came straight from Joe himself.

But Bree was different. She'd had a tighter relationship with not only Renzo, but other members of Durniak's mob family.

"Look," Starsky continued, "you left that life behind years ago. Why get involved with it again?"

Bree stared back at him, not forgetting that Hutch was being purposely kept out of the conversation. "Davey, there's still people out there who care about Michael Starsky's kids. Maybe they're not the kind you'd invite over for dinner, but they have connections."

Starsky felt his heart skip a beat. He glanced over at Hutch, not surprised to see he looked stunned.

"Bree," Starsky said through clinched teeth, "that's exactly why we don't want to be asking them over for dinner!"

"Don't you see what a hypocrite you're being?" Bree shot out. "When I told you they'd found one of the bastards that killed Pop, you didn't have one bad thing to say. But now, when they could help find this guy you need, all of a sudden you get righteous."

As her last words hung in the air, Starsky turned towards Hutch again. The look on his face wasn't hard to interpret. Hutch was finding out a lot about his partner lately, and his disappointment of being kept in the dark was clearly showing.

"We'll talk about this later, Bree," Starsky said. "Right now, Hutch and I are gonna find the rock this scum is hiding under. C'mon, we'll give you a ride back to your car."

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After dropping Bree off, Hutch steered the LTD through the hospital parking lot heading towards the exit.

"Pull over for a sec," Starsky said.

Obeying, Hutch pulled up next to a curb and put the car in park. He then turned to Starsky, but said nothing.

Starsky took a deep breath, then staring out the windshield said, "We've never had to say much to each other, but I've been keeping some things from you." He paused for a moment, trying to come up with the right words. "I don't deserve your loyalty anymore. I took our friendship and treated it like it wasn't special, and I know that hurt you." Looking at Hutch, he said, "I wish I could tell you what's happened—between us—but I can't. That's gonna take some time for me to figure out." Starsky sighed, then meekly uttered, "I could use your help, though, but I won't blame you if told me to go to hell."

"You all done now?" Hutch said coolly.

"Yeah," Starsky said, ready to take whatever his partner saw fit.

"Where do you want to start?"

Starsky hesitated before answering, but seeing the serious look in Hutch's eyes, said, "How about that hooker we talked to last time around?"

"Fine with me."

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During the next couple of hours, Starsky and Hutch tried to pick up their hunt for Suko after a year's hiatus. Everyone they talked to denied either seeing or talking to him, but it was impossible to tell if they were being truthful or not. Ratting on a mob member, even something as simple as saying whether he'd been seen around, could result in unpleasant things happening to those willing to talk. As the detectives got back in the LTD from yet another stop at a local bar, the car radio blared to life.

"_Zebra Three, meet the man in front of Al's Pawn Shop, 1330 Bancroft."_

"Copy, dispatch," Hutch acknowledged. Speaking to Starsky, he said, "Who do you think that might be?"

"I don't know. Hopefully someone with a good lead."

A few blocks from the address, Hutch was surprised to see the emergency lights from a cruiser in his rear view mirror. Before he could bring it to Starsky's attention, a blast from the siren behind them saved Hutch the trouble.

"What'd ya do, Hutch? Run a red light?" Starsky asked playfully, watching the black and white from his outside mirror.

"No, I didn't run a…shit!"

Hutch barely had a chance to slam on the brakes as a second patrol car pulled out from a side street directly in front of him. With cars at both front and back, the LTD was effectively blocked in.

"What the fuck?" Starsky blurted out, glancing at the cops surrounding them.

Opening his door, Hutch said, "I don't know, partner, but I'm damn sure gonna find out."

Starsky was right behind him, stepping out from the passenger side. Both instantly stopped in their tracks when the two officers from the front car pulled their weapons and aimed at the detectives. When they turned to the rear, a pair of cops from the second car had also drawn their guns.

As Hutch glanced over at Starsky, he was sure the shocked expression on his passenger's face mimicked his own.

"Sergeant Starsky?" one of the officers called out.

"Yeah, who's asking?" Starsky replied.

"Sir, I need you to place your hands on the roof of the car."

Starsky turned sideways to Hutch, clearly dumbfounded.

"What's this about, officer?" Hutch spat out angrily.

"Sergeant, we have a warrant for Detective Starsky's arrest, so please don't interfere."

"A warrant? On what charge!?" Starsky's outraged tone matched Hutch's.

"Sir, I'm not saying it again. Hands on the roof, now!"

Hutch grabbed his partner's attention. "Starsk, just do what they say. We'll find out what's going on soon enough."

Grudgingly, Starsky complied. The officer who had spoken holstered his gun and came up behind his arrestee. As he put one hand on Starsky's shoulder, he used his foot to forcibly spread the detective's legs apart. After a quick pat down, he pulled out a set of cuffs and began securing Starsky's hands behind his back.

"Is that really necessary?" Hutch protested, his stomach turning at the sound of the ratcheting metal.

"Sorry, sir, just following orders."

"And whose orders are those!?"

"Hutch," Starsky said calmly, "I think we both know the answer to that." Hutch studied his friend, saddened to see the resigned look staring back at him.

As the arresting officer took hold of Starsky's arm and began to lead him away, Hutch hollered, "So what's the charge?"

Pausing briefly, the cop replied, "He's being arrested for the murder of Detective Andrew Simmons." And before Hutch could say any more, Starsky was hauled to the rear patrol car and shoved into the back seat.

Hutch watched the officers get back into their vehicles, suddenly convinced the call from dispatch had been a setup. Feeling disgusted, he slid back into the driver's seat and kept his attention on the patrol car carrying Starsky, determined to follow it back to the precinct. Of all the fears that were now gnawing at his gut, the biggest one concerned what evidence had surfaced to indicate Starsky had killed Simmons.

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As he sat in the back seat, Starsky listened mindlessly as the officer read him his rights. When he finished reciting the information on the wallet-sized card, the cop asked the obligatory questions. 'Yes,' Starsky understood his rights; 'No' he didn't wish to speak to anyone. Finally left to his thoughts, Starsky watched the view passing by the window.

He wasn't sure what he should be feeling. Mad? Scared? He wondered what Trevor might say to him, then recalled that what was happening was because of Trevor. Starsky wasn't upset about that. The incident at the warehouse was just Simmons' plan for getting rid of Suko and himself. Starsky had to smirk at the irony. Simmons obviously had worked so hard at making him look bad and now, by dying, it seemed like his goal was going to be accomplished.

As the minutes ticked by, Starsky began to feel more apprehensive the closer they got to the precinct. The tightness of the metal gripping his wrists didn't allow for any thoughts outside of the reality that was engulfing him. He realized why the arrest had gone down like it did. Internal Affairs had obviously not forgotten the stunt he had pulled with Hutch after Vanessa's murder. This time they planned to make sure he had no place to go once the trap was sprung.

With his fear building, Starsky just wanted to huddle in a dark corner and never leave it. He was getting tired of picking up the shattered pieces of his life and trying to put it all back together again. How could one person have such a crummy year? Life was full of ups and downs, but this was ridiculous. Every time a little something good happened, a ton of bad would closely follow and wipe it out. His supply of optimism was becoming severely depleted and the only thing taking its place was just more fear—and if there was one thing he hated, it was being afraid.

Feeling a small tear begin to form in the corner of his eye, Starsky slowly shifted his head sideways until he could wipe it along the top of the seat. _C'mon, you can't break down now. _The car took a small dip and Starsky glanced out the window, sickened to see they had arrived in the parking lot.

When the vehicle came to a stop, Starsky lowered his head. He didn't want to know who might be around to see him in handcuffs, being pulled out of the back seat like some criminal. His door opened and as he began to get out, a familiar voice caused his head to lift up.

"Take those cuffs off of him, now." Dobey's voice was hard and tense. The man was standing just a foot away, purposely blocking any clear view someone could have of Starsky.

"Captain," the officer said, sounding apologetic, "we were just following procedure."

"I'm not telling you again," came the stern reply.

"Yes, sir."

As the officer maneuvered in between the opened door to complete his task, Starsky stared at the captain's face. The expression he saw was tight and unrevealing, and there was no way of knowing what his former supervisor was thinking. When the last cuff slipped off, Starsky noticed Hutch walking up behind Dobey, apparently just as surprised to see the captain there as Starsky was.

Once the officers got back in their car and drove off, Dobey addressed the two men.

"IA called me a bit ago. Said they'd gotten the District Attorney to file charges. Simonetti wanted to come down and do the honors," he said, glancing at Starsky, "but that's where I drew the line. So I'm going to escort you inside and then we're going into one of the interview rooms. Starsky—I'll tell you right now, this doesn't look good. You're entitled to have an attorney and if you want, I'll get on the phone and get the best one here from the Association that I can."

Starsky glanced at Hutch, then back at Dobey. "Captain, I didn't kill Simmons…no matter what IA claims, and I've got no reason to change what I already told 'em, either. Thanks for the offer, but I'll pass for now."

"Okay, if that's what you want, but don't underestimate the charges, Starsky. This is serious. _Deadly_ serious."

"I hear ya, Cap." Starsky took a hard swallow, then led the way into the building.

.

As the trio entered the small room, Starsky couldn't help but notice the smug look on Simonetti's face. He glanced over at Dryden and saw the same thing. Pulling a chair out, Starsky sat down. He clasped his hands together, and made himself as comfortable as he could while resting both arms on the table.

"Before we begin, Detective, I need to advise you of your rights," Simonetti started.

"I know my rights and I've already been advised of 'em," Starsky snarled back.

Ignoring the comment, Simonetti started reading the Miranda warning from a form lying in front of him. When he finished, he pushed the page across the table to Starsky, and tossed a pen on top of it. "Here, sign this waiver then," he said, practically gloating. Starsky scribbled his signature on the bottom then pushed the paper back at Simonetti.

"We got the tests back on the bullets found in Detective Simmons' body. Care to guess who the gun that fired them belongs to?"

"Ain't that your job?" replied Starsky.

Sporting a lopsided grin, Simonetti declared, "The rounds came from a 9mm Beretta, serial number 089123. I do believe that's the weapon assigned to you, isn't it?"

"If you say so."

"So why'd you shoot him?"

"I didn't. Like I told you before, there was another person there who probably had a very good reason for wanting to kill him."

"Ah yes, the mysterious Frank Suko. Tell me, Sergeant, did his name just pop into your head or did you have to think about it for a while?"

Tightening his hands, Starsky answered, "He was there, whether you believe me or not."

"Okay. For the sake of argument, let's assume that Suko shot Simmons. Why did he use your gun and then leave it in your holster at the scene?"

"I have no idea," Starsky said tersely. "A big guess would be that he wanted to pin the death on me."

Simonetti stood and walked to one corner of the room. "Now earlier, you said that you weren't sure what happened after Simmons' allegedly confessed that he killed Trevor Woods."

"Yeah, that's right."

"So, what _**is**_ the last thing you remember?"

Starsky thought for a moment, then said, "Simmons said something about me not being good enough to work with either Hutch or Babcock, and that's why Trevor was killed—because he was my partner."

"Is that it?"

"I remember getting up…"

"You were on the floor? How did that happen?"

There was no way Starsky was going to tell the room full of people the truthful answer to that question. "Suko got in a few punches." _Yeah, and he wasn't just using his fists._

"Are you sure you weren't experiencing a side effect of the medication you're on?" Simonetti prodded.

Starsky glared at the investigator. "I wasn't taking any medication," he gritted out.

"Well, that's interesting because you did have traces of a muscle relaxant in your system," Simonetti said as he picked up a sheet of paper from the open folder in front of him. "Let's see, ah yes, the hospital lab found evidence of Skelaxin and another drug…"

"Let me see that!" Starsky spouted as he reached across the table and grabbed the paper.

"Don't worry, Detective. We did get a court order to access your medical records from last night."

Starsky glanced at the page then tossed it back over to Simonetti. "So what? I've got a prescription for those pills. You claiming that I was too drugged to know what I was doing?"

"Why don't you tell me?"

"Why don't you go to hell!"

Simonetti sat back in his chair, smiling cynically at Starsky. "You really should work on that temper, Detective. So, where were we? Oh yes, you said you remembered getting up. What happened then?"

Starsky took a deep breath. He couldn't let Simonetti goad him like that. In a calmer tone, he answered, "I got up, and the last thing I remember was going after Simmons."

"Going after him how?"

"I wanted to hit him."

"You decided to attack someone you claim was holding a gun on you? Really, Starsky. Maybe you need to get off that medication…"

Before Simonetti could finish, Starsky had bolted out of his chair only to be grabbed by Dobey before he managed to launch himself over the table.

"Starsky! Settle down right now!" Dobey yelled.

Starsky quit looking at the pompous sneer Simonetti had on his face and sought out what he hoped would be a kinder expression on Hutch. His partner was eyeing him, evidently sympathetic. Starsky relaxed his muscles and settled back in his seat, but getting the fear inside to let up wasn't as easy.

"That's okay, Captain. We're all familiar with Starsky's short fuse. I guess that explains the findings from the coroner's office."

"What are you talkin' about?" Hutch cut in.

Simonetti smiled mischievously. "I guess that's something we haven't mentioned yet. The cause of Detective Simmons' death—it was by strangulation."

TBC


	17. Chapter 17

Many thanks go out to all of my readers! I'm still without stats, and it's driving me crazy! As always, comments are appreciated (and they let me know if anyone is still reading this!).

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Chapter 17

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The impact of Simonetti's last comment reverberated through the room. Starsky's eyes latched onto those of his partner, the shock behind them hard even for Hutch to contemplate. One thing was blatantly clear, though. Short of a full confession, Starsky had just nailed himself on an indictment for murder.

Dobey broke the tension first. "What the hell did you just say?" he asked, glaring fiercely at Simonetti.

"You heard me, Captain. The coroner performing the autopsy said the cause of death was strangulation, although either bullet wound could have also been fatal."

"So how does that make Starsky the killer? If the bullets fired from his gun didn't kill Simmons…"

"Captain, your detective nearly took my head off just now, and in his own words, the last thing he remembers is going after Simmons." Simonetti rose from his chair and placed the papers on the desk back into the folder. "I think the District Attorney will be satisfied with our report and can proceed with pursuing charges of first degree murder. Needless to say, my recommendation to the Chief will be the immediate suspension without pay of Sergeant Starsky. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to make arrangements downstairs to have him brought down for processing pending his arraignment."

Simonetti turned and strolled out of the room followed by Dryden. As the three remaining men sat in silence, Hutch watched Starsky's expression slowly change to one of utter defeat. He could hardly believe what was happening, much less imagine what Starsky must be trying to make of it—as if surviving Gunther's assassination attempt and all the hell that went with that wasn't enough for one lifetime.

Starsky ended the stillness by releasing a loud exhalation. "Well, I can't say it's been fun," he said in a resigned tone.

"Starsky, this isn't the end," Hutch replied.

"Damn straight it's not," Dobey added. "Simonetti didn't even consider the possibility of self-defense."

That got Starsky's attention. "So what are you sayin', Capt'n? That you believe I killed Simmons? Even if it was justified?"

"Andy Simmons was one of my detectives, too. Now I wasn't there in the warehouse, but I'm as shocked to hear he was involved in anything dirty as much as I'd be if it were you."

"Well, it's good to know some people aren't ready to call me a liar straight to my face," Starsky remarked.

Dobey gave him a stern look then sighed and got out of his chair. Before he made it to the door, Starsky said, "Capt'n…I'm sorry. I appreciate you being in my corner, really."

"Let me know if you need help finding an attorney, Starsky." Dobey glanced over at Hutch, then opened the door and walked out.

Starsky shot out of his chair and approached the nearest wall. He stood there for a moment then hammered his fist into the plastered surface. Having spent his frustration, he placed both forearms on the wall, then rested his forehead between them.

Hutch got up and stood behind his friend. He placed a hand on Starsky's shoulder and said, "We're both here for you, Starsk. You know that."

Starsky stayed silent, then straightened and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out the leather wallet containing his badge and flipped it open. After giving the contents a hard, long look, he closed the case and handed it to Hutch.

"Here, I won't be needing this anymore," Starsky said softly.

"I'm not taking that."

"You better, or Simonetti's gonna have it bronzed so he can display it on his desk."

Hutch reached out stiffly and took the item. His eyes traveled up and locked onto Starsky's. "Starsk…" he began.

Starsky quickly turned away and took a few steps to a corner of the room. With his head hung low, he said, "I'm screwed, Hutch. It wouldn't matter if Suko was right here confessing to the whole thing. IA's convinced I'm some drug addict with a hot temper that's ready to take out anyone who gets in my way. Truth is…they're probably right."

"Starsky, that's not true and you know it!" Hutch cried out. "You're a damn good cop that's been through more than any one person should ever have to go through. And you're not a drug addict, for God's sake! Your body just needs a little more time to heal so you won't have to be…"

Starsky spun around. "Damn it, Hutch, shut up!" He looked into the shocked face of his partner, and as he fought to hold back the emotions wanting to explode, shakily continued. "That's just it. There's always one more piece of shit out there wanting to fire another bullet and…I just can't take it anymore!" Starsky hunched over slightly, choking back a sob. "God, Hutch, it just never stops. And every time, I lose something else I can't afford to. My Pop…Terri…Trevor…all those cops that died…and because of me!"

"That wasn't because of you, Starsky! Your dad didn't die because of you. Terri and the others, they were all murdered by sick people. You didn't pull the trigger and you weren't responsible."

"Oh yeah? Well what about Simmons? I killed him, right?"

Hutch drew back, almost afraid to say anything. If it wasn't for the pleading look on Starsky's face, he would've remained silent. "I don't believe that, buddy…and I don't think you do either."

Starsky stared at him, as if not knowing what to say.

"Do you still trust me?" Hutch asked, taking a step closer. "Because what happened to you with Gunther, that was my fault…"

"What are you talkin' about?" Starsky spewed out, his mood suddenly changing.

"I didn't cover you. I saw the car coming and…and all I could do was hit the ground."

"Hutch, that's crazy…"

Holding up his hand, Hutch said, "No, Starsky. It's no crazier than you feeling responsible for those people who died. I saw what you went through every day, the pain you suffered, and all I could think about was what I should've done different. And it made me sick…sick enough that I just wanted to quit. But I never saw you give up, not until that one night." Starsky dipped his head, his anger clearly dissipating. "Don't you see? We're just going around in circles, beating each other up and blaming ourselves for things that we're not responsible for. And it's gotta stop, Starsky—or else we become a couple of victims—too scared and too damn tired to care about anything or anyone."

Before Starsky could answer, the door flew open and two uniformed officers came in.

"Sergeant, we need to take you downstairs." The officer speaking pulled out a set of handcuffs. "Sorry, but you know its policy."

Starsky stood stoically, keeping his eyes on Hutch. He never broke that contact as first one hand was pulled back and cuffed, and then the other. When the officer took hold of his arm to lead him out of the room, Starsky momentarily resisted.

"Guess you'll know where to find me," he quietly murmured.

Hutch reached up and squeezed Starsky's arm. "Hang in there, okay?"

"Sure," came the mouthed reply.

After watching Starsky go out the door, Hutch let out a frustrated sigh, then sat down on the desk. Lowering his head, he thought out loud, "Now what do we do, partner?"

His solitary reflection was broken by the sound of raised voices out in the hallway. Jumping up and heading out the door, Hutch quickly located the source. Rebecca Simmons, Andy's wife, was standing in front of Starsky, yelling at him and being held back by the escorting officers.

"Why!? Why did you kill Andy, David?" Rebecca screamed, not seeming to care who heard her.

"Becky, I swear, I didn't kill him," replied Starsky, his voice betraying the calm he was trying to exhibit.

"Yeah, and I guess you always walk around the station in handcuffs. I hope you rot in hell, David, and I hope while you're sitting in jail, you think about an eight year old girl who's gotta live with the fact that you killed her father!"

Without warning, she drew back and slapped Starsky across the face. As one of the officers finally took control of her, the other hustled Starsky towards the elevator. Hutch watched as Rebecca was led in the opposite direction, then caught a last glimpse of his partner as he entered the elevator. Suddenly sure of what he had to do, Hutch went to the squad room and, finding a quiet corner, picked up the phone.

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Having spent the last hour wading through IA's reports along with the ballistic and coroner's findings, Hutch jammed the pages back inside the file folder on his desk. He began to massage the bridge of his nose, trying to excise the migraine entrenched behind the thin plate of bone. Glancing up at the clock, he closed the manila folder and threw it in his inbox. He grabbed his jacket and walked out of the squad room, heading towards the basement holding cells.

Hutch approached the jail intake desk, and quickly got the attention of the officer behind it.

"Sergeant Hutchinson, what can I do for you?" he asked.

"Need to see my partner, Ray. Which cell is he in?"

Officer Ray Malone shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Sorry, Hutch, but it's past five o'clock. You know I can't let anyone back there without the Lieutenant's permission."

"Ray," Hutch said wearily, "It's been a long day. I want to talk to Starsky right now, so just tell me where he's at and I'll take full responsibility, okay?"

The officer fidgeted a little more, then said, "Alright, but no more than a few minutes—and make sure you check your gun in the locker. He's in cell number five."

Hutch tapped the desk in acknowledgement and after securing the Magnum in a gun locker, grabbed the handle of the metal entrance door and waited for Malone to buzz him in. He walked down the quiet hallway, trying to soften the echo of his heels on the polished cement floor. As he approached cell number five, Hutch was disheartened to see Starsky sitting on the small bunk, legs drawn up to his chest and wearing a bright orange jumpsuit.

Starsky looked over to see who his visitor was, then went back to staring at his cell wall. "Come to see the new animal at the zoo?" he mumbled.

"Came to see how you were doing," Hutch answered, then realized how lame his comment sounded. "Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you?"

A quick snort was the only answer. Starsky unfolded his legs, then turning his back to Hutch, stretched himself out on the bed. As Hutch watched the giant, black "BCPD" letters on the back of Starsky's overalls disappear as he lay down, they reminded him of a modern day version of the Scarlet Letter. He continued to watch his partner in silence as Starsky tucked both arms under his head and resumed his gazing, this time concentrating on the ceiling above him.

After a long moment, Hutch said, "Starsk…" then hesitated, not knowing what to say.

"Go home, Hutch. Ain't nothin' you can do."

"I'm not giving up, partner. I might be one of the few people that believe you, but I'm…"

Starsky leapt to his feet and approached the gate. He grasped two of the steel bars on the door that separated him from Hutch. "Can't you see what's happening?" he growled. "Even a numbskull like me knows a losing bet when he sees one."

Hutch drew back just an inch. Collecting himself, he said, "Uh-uh. No way, Starsky. You are _not _giving up."

Loosening his grip, Starsky dropped his hands and looked at his visitor in disbelief. Just as he began to utter a response, Hutch suddenly pressed forward, his voice sharp and direct. "If you give up, you might as well take me with you, because I'm not going on without you. Is that what you want, huh?"

Starsky held his stance for a moment, then pushed away from the gate, his body seeming to shrink from the effort. He went back to the bed and plopped down on the thin mattress. Leaning forward, he bowed his head and buried his face into opened palms, looking every bit the defeated pawn in this no-win game he'd been forced into.

Hutch dipped his head, then softly asked, "What time is your arraignment tomorrow?"

"Eleven o'clock," said Starsky, his voice muffled.

"Okay, eleven…" Hutch's stomach sank. "Oh, Starsk—"

He watched his partner, feeling his heart tear at the display of hopelessness. It seemed almost inevitable that Starsky's arraignment should be scheduled at a time that completely prevented him from going to Trevor's funeral.

"Would…would you like me to go in your place? I could talk to Mary, let her know that…you wanted to be there."

"Just leave me alone, huh?" Starsky lifted an arm and wiped the end of his nose with his shirt sleeve. He then lay down on the bed and pulled the blanket out from beneath him. Lifting it, he crawled under the paltry cover and settled his head on the wafer-thin pillow.

Hutch stood frozen in place, one hand holding onto a metal bar for support. He couldn't imagine spending one hour inside that cell, much less the other seventeen that Starsky had to wait until his hearing. Then there was still the matter of his bail. Would the court be lenient with the amount because he was a cop, or would the District Attorney demand more because of it?

Standing there, Hutch made up his mind to go to Trevor's funeral, even if he could only stay for a little while. Being present at Starsky's arraignment was the most important thing, and besides, the living did take precedence over the dead.

Slowly concluding his presence wasn't needed or perhaps even wanted, he let go of the bar. "I'll see you tomorrow, Starsk. And I'll give Mary your regards." He watched for any sign of acknowledgment, but seeing none, turned and walked back to the exit door.

What he didn't hear, and wasn't meant to, was the soft whisper of "Thanks, buddy," from inside the cell.

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Bree entered the Pits and located her date sitting in a secluded booth back by the pool table. As she walked through the bar, she nodded a greeting at Huggy, who was busy behind the counter attending to two young ladies. Arriving at the booth, she smiled sympathetically at the forlorn-looking blond already there. Hutch was hunched over the table, his hands wrapped around a glass of beer.

She slid into the bench seat opposite him and pulled off her jacket. Huggy arrived a few seconds later. He gave Hutch a cursory glance then turned his attention to Bree.

"Care to have what he's having, or do you possess much finer tastes?"

"Well, they say misery loves company, so I'll have whatever he's got."

Huggy shook his head. "What the lady wants, the lady gets…be right back with your glass."

After watching him go, Bree focused on Hutch once more. "Did you have a chance to see David?" she asked.

Hutch nodded his head. "Yeah," he said then took a sip from his beer.

"How's he doing?"

Setting his glass down, Hutch said, "I haven't seen him this down since Terri died, and frankly, I don't blame him for being scared to death. Right now, it's his word against a stack of evidence and I doubt if any jury is gonna believe him over the lab reports. Were you able to get a hold of your…friend?"

Bree withheld her answer as Huggy came up and set her drink on the table.

"Can I get you two anything else?"

"No, thanks, Huggy."

Showing a half-grin, Huggy said, "Alright, but you're occupying my most profitable table. Most people would be emptying their pockets to have exclusive use of this private cubbyhole."

"Huggy…we're not 'most people,'" Hutch said dryly.

"Fine. Can't blame a poor, starving, minority businessman from trying to earn a decent living, can you?"

Seeing his spiel was getting him nowhere, Huggy let out a small huff and went back to rejoin the two better prospects waiting for him at the bar.

Hutch turned back to Bree and said, "So, as I was saying, did you talk to him?"

"Yeah, we had a talk."

"You don't sound like you reminisced about the good old days too much."

Bree frowned. "It's not like talking to your mother, you know. I did find out something interesting, though." She took a drink from her glass.

Hutch gave Bree his full attention. "Well?" he said impatiently.

"My friend thinks that Suko is back in Jersey City…looking for work."

Amazed, Hutch said, "Are you sure? I mean, he said that to you?"

"Not in so many words—that's why I'm flying out there tomorrow."

"You're what?"

Releasing a sigh, Bree answered, "You heard me. I'm sure whatever he knows, he'll tell me."

"Bree, if he couldn't tell you over the phone, what makes you think…"

"Do I have to spell it out? These people don't conduct business by phone, Hutch. It's either in person or not at all."

"Alright, you've made your point," grumbled Hutch, a little embarrassed at having this explained to him. "What time is your flight?"

"Two thirty. I've already got a ride, if that's why you're asking."

"No, that's not it." Hutch expression hardened. "I'm going with you."

"Hutch! No, you can't! Are you crazy?" Bree exclaimed. "And what about Davey? Isn't his arraignment tomorrow?"

"It's at eleven. That gives me enough time to be there for that and get to the airport. Besides, if Suko is really in Jersey I can arrest him and bring him back to LA."

"Hutch, things may not work out that simply," Bree said as her gaze drifted across the room.

"What do you mean?"

Looking directly into his eyes, she said, "Suko is part of my friend's borgata…the Family. I don't think they'll turn over one of their own like that."

"Well, we won't know unless we go there, will we?"

Bree contemplated his offer, but she knew how Ken could react to certain things, and this was one time his inflexibility might prove dangerous. "Okay, but only on one condition," she ventured.

"That being?"

Brushing off the sarcastic tone, Bree said, "Look. You may think you know something about gangsters and mobs, but that attitude will only get your tight blond ass dumped in a garbage heap so deep even a bulldozer couldn't dig it out. This is one time that you're gonna have to _listen_ to me. If you think I'm bullshitting you, then you'd better believe this—just me showing up with you could get us both killed. You can't play cop with these guys, do you understand?"

After a long moment, Hutch gave a grudging nod in the affirmative.

"No! I'm serious. It's not about who shows up with the biggest gun or badge. You have to swear, Ken, swear that you'll keep that macho, ass-kicking cop attitude locked up tighter than Fort Knox or David isn't gonna have a sister or partner to help him anymore. Is that clear?"

"Yes, you made it perfectly clear." Hutch hated to admit, but Bree's speech had left him feeling a lot more anxious about this trip. But dangerous or not, finding Suko and bringing him back alive was worth risking his, how did she put it—'tight blond ass' for. "Let me have your flight number and I'll call the airline for a reservation," he said, pulling out a notepad from his pocket.

"Okay, but there's one more thing," Bree mentioned.

"I have to convert to Catholicism?" he quipped.

Bree momentarily closed her eyes and shook her head in feigned disgust. "This isn't funny, you jerk. You have to promise not to say a word about this to David."

"He's going to be mad when he finds out."

"Well, hopefully by then he'll be too busy thanking us."

"Now who's the one fantasizing?" droned Hutch.

TBC


	18. Chapter 18

Hey Everyone! The stats are working again, but I've lost info from the last 3 days...pooh. Anyway, a gracious thank you for your continued interest in the story and for the lovely comments!

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Chapter 18

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Starsky once again awakened to the sound of voices. As he emerged into awareness, he could hear the jail staff serving breakfast to his fellow inmates down the hall. Letting the view around him slowly become clearer, he noted this was the second night now he hadn't woken up in his own bed. And as far as comfort went, each time was getting worse. The only positive thing was that his chest discomfort hovered in the mildly sore range, thanks to having spent most of the day before flat on his back. But the disturbing thought of where he might be sleeping that night hung heavy in his thoughts.

He knew he should prepare for the possibility of getting slapped with a high bail. If that did happen, his new home for the next couple of months would be the county jail. Had this occurred pre-Gunther, his ability to take care of himself against convicts wanting payback wouldn't have been in question. But now, all that had changed. He wouldn't last much past the first few days, unless they put him in solitary. So, at best that probably meant eventually becoming someone's bitch. At worst…well, maybe if they got him to the hospital fast enough…

Starsky couldn't help but chuckle just a bit at the notion that might be the key to surviving. He'd let someone beat the shit out of him once a week. That way, for every day he spent in jail, another six would go by while he recovered in the hospital. After a few months, there wouldn't be anything left of him to beat up anymore and the goons would leave him alone.

Hearing the breakfast crew next door, Starsky let out a long sigh and dragged his stiff body out of bed. His only hope at the moment was that the coffee would be hot and strong.

.

Hutch pulled into the crowded parking lot and, finally finding an empty space, left the LTD unlocked and made his way into the church. The service was brief, but Hutch thought it was nicely done. Afterwards, he caught Mary for a few minutes before her entourage was ready to leave for the cemetery.

"Oh yes, you're from David's old precinct," Mary said, recognizing Hutch. "I'm glad you could make it for the service. Captain MacMillan told me about what happened to David…how is he?"

While Hutch was glad he wasn't the first to inform her about Starsky's arrest, it didn't make it any easier. "His arraignment is today. I know he would've given anything to have been here."

"Yes, I'm sure he would. I can't say I know him as well as you do, but I just can't believe he would be responsible for such a thing. I wish there was something I could do. God only knows I owe him for being with Trevor…at the end."

"I'm sure he'd appreciate your offer. I think he'd also want to know how you're holding up."

Mary dropped her head for a moment, looking as though she was trying to collect her thoughts. "I've got plenty of good friends that have been keeping me company. The evenings are the worst, and the time will come when it'll just be me in the house. But I'll get through it."

Mary gazed deeply at Hutch, then said, "Trevor told me about your friendship with David. He said that kind of bond is hard to come by and what holds it together is pure love. It's almost like a marriage; the more you care about someone, the harder it is not to be hurt when things don't go as you expect them to. I feel that's why you and David belong together as partners. You need each other so that you can both be whole." After taking a deep breath, she added, "I'll keep you both in my prayers—David told me he'd find the person responsible for Trevor's death. But look at what it's cost him."

"Mary, Starsky didn't kill Detective Simmons," Hutch said firmly.

"Of course, dear, I know he didn't. But he feels he's responsible for Trevor's death and that's what worries me. He needs his other half, Ken…to keep him balanced."

Hutch reached out and took a hold of Mary's hand. "Trevor found himself a remarkable lady. I'll tell Starsky that you'll be thinking of him."

"And let him know I'll be expecting you both for dinner, very soon."

"I will." Hutch squeezed her hand and then walked back to his car. He pulled out his pocket watch and saw he only had a short while to get to the courthouse. Once he was away from the church, Hutch threw the Mars light up on the roof and turned the siren on. Sometimes, being a cop did have its privileges and this time Hutch took full advantage.

.

After rushing up the last set of stairs, Hutch made his way to Judge Reinhold's courtroom. As he slipped inside through the double doors, he quickly glanced around the room, relieved that he didn't see Starsky. Looking for a good place to sit, Hutch was pleasantly surprised to see Bree sitting just a few rows from the front. He walked down the aisle and eased over to her seat.

"Hey, I didn't know you were planning on being here," he said, sitting down beside her.

"I didn't think I was going to make it, but my boss gave me the morning off. How was the funeral?"

"It was…okay. At least I got the chance to talk to Trevor's wife. She's quite a woman." Hutch sat back and silently recalled their conversation while he waited with Bree for the judge to arrive.

Within a few minutes, Judge Reinhold entered his courtroom and called the first case. It wasn't Starsky, but a young man who had been arrested for burglary. Hutch felt a glimmer of hope as the judge allowed him to post a low bail even though he had been arrested before. Once the offender was led out of the room, Starsky was ushered in. He had changed back into his street clothes and, at least for now, wasn't handcuffed. Hutch tried to make eye contact, but his partner was keeping his gaze focused towards the front of the room.

The judge picked up a sheet of paper from his bench, and glanced at it. "Next case is State of California vs. David Michael Starsky on the charge of Murder in the First Degree." He pushed his reading glasses down on his nose and looked over at the prosecutor's table. "Is the District Attorney ready?"

Hutch cringed as he saw Paul Sims stand up and answer the judge. He and Starsky had harbored no admiration for the ADA after the poor job he did trying to prosecute Lisa Graham's attacker.

"…and is the defendant ready?" Reinhold continued.

Beside Starsky, a well-dressed man in his late twenties stood. Hutch didn't recognize him, but suspected he was one of the union attorneys.

"Your honor, Peter Haskins from the Bay City Police Officer's Association representing my client."

Reinhold looked back at the prosecutor. "Counselor, I believe it's your turn."

"Your honor, the people claim that on the night of December 3rd, Detective Sergeant Starsky arranged to meet with the deceased, Detective Sergeant Andrew Simmons. And during this get-together, an argument ensued whereupon Sergeant Starsky murdered the victim."

The judge then turned to the defense. "Mr. Haskins, does the defendant understand his rights and the charges against him?"

After Starsky nodded at his lawyer, Haskins replied, "Yes sir, he does."

"And how does he plead?"

At the prompting of his attorney, Starsky stood and said, "Not guilty."

Speaking next, ADA Sims said, "Your honor, due to the seriousness of this crime the people request bail in the amount of $250,000."

Hutch swallowed hard at the amount.

Haskins responded. "Sir, my client is a decorated police detective who has been employed by the department for almost twelve years. As such, he has extensive ties to the community. Based on this, defense is seeking release of Sergeant Starsky on his own recognizance."

Sims immediately broke in, saying, "Your honor, what the defense counsel is proposing is ludicrous. The charge against his client carries the possibility of the death sentence. Surely he's not proposing that the court just turn the defendant loose?"

"He's got a point, counselor," Reinhold said, addressing Haskins.

"Sir, my client has lived in this city for nearly three decades and he has never been charged with a criminal offense before."

"Well, he picked a hell of a charge for his first one, then. Court orders bail set at $100,000 with the usual restrictions and the stipulation that the defendant not leave the city limits." Reinhold jotted something down in his notes. "Preliminary hearing for this case is set for December 10th, at one o'clock. Until the defendant can post bail, he is remanded to the custody of the sheriff's office and ordered to be held in the county jail." Reinhold then banged his gavel on the podium and announced, "Court is adjourned until two o'clock."

Hutch stood up, finally able to catch Starsky's eye as he listened to his attorney. Then, as he turned to say something to Bree, he noticed Babcock standing at the back of the courtroom. The man glared at Hutch then walked out through the double doors. Looking at Bree, Hutch said, "I'm gonna go see if I can talk to Starsky for a few minutes. I'll meet you at my place like we planned, okay?"

"Alright. Tell him…tell him that I'm thinking of him."

Hutch smiled at her and slid out from the bench, following the two sheriff's deputies as they led Starsky into an adjoining room. When Hutch approached the doorway, one of the deputies confronted him.

"Sorry, but you need to wait outside while we prepare him for transport."

"He's my partner," Hutch said, managing to keep a civil tone. "I just need a couple of minutes."

The guard looked at his partner, then Starsky. "That all right with you?" he asked.

Starsky nodded, but remained silent, his empty expression seeming to mimic his emotions.

"Okay," the guard said as he started to slip a leather belt around Starsky's waist. "When we're done, I'll give you a few minutes."

As Hutch watched him buckle the belt and then handcuff Starsky's wrists in front, he cautiously glanced up and studied his partner. What he saw, he didn't like. The brunet's eyes were dull, blindly staring ahead and showing nothing that even resembled Starsky on a bad day. It was like looking at a statue.

The guard finished putting the shackles around the ankles, then made one last check of the buckle in the middle of Starsky's back.

"The door needs to stay open," he told Hutch. "We'll be right outside."

When the two guards had left, Hutch stepped closer to Starsky. For once, he didn't know what to say. Words like 'don't worry, it'll be okay' or 'just hang in there' seemed as useless as throwing a drowning man a bucket of water.

Starsky tugged at the chain holding his wrists to the belt. "So much for innocent until proven guilty, huh?" he said solemnly. Before Hutch could respond, Starsky went on, "I need you to sell the car for me, as fast as you can, but get a decent price, okay? Two or three thousand would work. There's also about two grand in my savings account. The bank book is in the desk drawer in the living room, along with the car title. Maybe between Mom and Aunt Rose and Uncle Al, I can get the rest. Also, ask Huggy if there's anything he can chip in."

The sudden, rapid fire talking came as a surprise.

"Starsky…"

"Oh," he cut in. "My checking account. There's about four hundred in that. Maybe something closer to five. Don't we get paid this week?"

"Starsky," Hutch repeated, in a firmer tone.

The brief glint of luster in his partner's eyes began to fade.

"I can't go inside," Starsky said, in an urgent whisper. "You and me both know what's gonna happen." His face was serious, the fear in his voice heavy.

"Why aren't you asking me to help you with the bail money?"

The question hung unanswered in the small room for several long seconds. Starsky dropped his head and concentrated on his bound hands. "This isn't your problem, that's why," he said. "That ten percent stays in the bondman's pocket…I can't ask you to do that."

"We're partners—you don't have to ask."

Starsky looked up. "You'd just be throwing good money after bad…look, if you could get the car sold and the other money rounded up, that'll be helping me."

Deciding to let the argument go, Hutch laid a hand on Starsky's shoulder. His friend had enough to worry about, and unless Hutch and Bree could locate Suko quickly, Starsky's chances of staying whole long enough to make it to court would be slim to none. As both guards appeared in the doorway, Starsky nodded slightly at Hutch, acknowledging his touch. Hutch's stomach tightened. He wanted to give Starsky some hope, tell him about the trip to Jersey, but he had promised Bree.

"Make sure you tell 'em you gave at the office," he said instead, trying to end their visit on a bright note.

Starsky's face barely registered a smile. Hutch lowered his arm, then leaned in and quietly told his partner, "Might take a few days to get all that done. Hang in there, okay?"

"Yeah, piece of cake," Starsky muttered.

Tentatively moving his feet forward, Starsky shuffled out of the room, his arms held on both sides by his guards. Hutch glanced at the clock on the wall, then went out in the hall, taking one last look at his partner as he slowly hobbled away.

Staring at the departing figure, Hutch felt torn between staying in Bay City and flying out to Jersey on what could very well be a wild goose chase. He didn't like the fact that he was playing with Starsky's life. Once inside prison, a cop was fair game to anyone who wanted to administer a dose of revenge. Unfortunately for Starsky, it wouldn't take much to land him in the hospital. As his partner disappeared around a corner, Hutch let out a deep sigh and took off down the hall.

Once he made it to his car, Hutch started to drive towards Venice Place, but then changed his mind and hurried over to the precinct. There was something he needed to ask Dobey for— something that just might come in handy if his trip to Jersey proved successful.

.

After making it to the airport with Bree, Hutch stretched his legs out and leaned back on the vinyl bench seat. He glanced up at the television screen on the wall in the gate area, checking the flight number and departure time. Bree closed the paperback novel she was reading and did the same thing. In the last hour, their flight had been delayed twice, and was now scheduled to leave at four o'clock.

"Glad to know we rushed out here so that we could sit around for two and a half hours," Hutch griped. "Would it kill them to say why the flight is being delayed?"

Bree opened the book back up. "Could be because of bad weather there," she explained. "It is winter, you know."

"Did you forget, I grew up in Minnesota?" he shot back, then softened his tone. "I guess you might be right. I hope it's not snowing too much. That's one thing I don't miss about winter."

"Did you ever make snow angels?" she said, her eyes glued to her book.

"A couple of times, when I was a kid. My sister and I used to build snowmen a lot. Sometimes, they'd last for weeks."

"Davey and I would have snowball fights. Nicky would try and join in, but he'd stuff rocks in his, so we'd have to gang up on him." Bree laid the book down in her lap and looked over at Hutch. "Maybe that's why he turned out the way he did," she said half-jokingly.

Hutch smiled in spite of himself; she probably wasn't that far off from the truth. Nick had always given him the impression of someone trying to fit in where he didn't belong. But thinking of Nick led to thinking about Starsky, and Hutch couldn't do that right now. Shaking off the memories, he glanced around the gate area, eventually spotting a sign to the restrooms. He stood and said, "Don't go away…I'll be right back."

Following his gaze, Bree answered, "Sure. When you get back, it's my turn. Hey, do you think they're gonna feed us on the plane? Maybe we should grab something to eat, just in case."

"Probably wouldn't be a bad idea. Hang on to that thought."

He made it about three steps before he froze. A familiar figure was approaching him with a determined strut. All Hutch could do was utter, "Oh, shit," loud enough to make Bree get out of her seat, too.

"So, fancy meetin' you here," Starsky said sharply.

Recovering quickly, Hutch replied, "What are you doing out of jail?"

"It's called 'bail.' Let's even guilty people out on the street. You must've gotten one hell of a good deal on my car, or was that one of those things you weren't planning on getting around to for a few more days?" Starsky's voice sounded tight as he kept his eyes on Hutch.

"How'd you know we were here?" Hutch asked, his tone matching that of his partner's.

"I didn't. I wasn't even booked yet when they told me my bail had been posted. I went lookin' for you. Wanted to say 'thanks,' only you weren't around. So I went to the station and asked Dobey where you were. All he would say was you were checking out a tip and had to leave for a couple of days." Motioning to Bree, he said, "Called her boss and, interestingly enough, she's got a few days off. All that was left was checking the airlines, and here you are."

"So who bailed you out?" Hutch asked.

"Dunno," Starsky said, and shrugged. "It sure as hell wasn't you."

"Don't you know you're breaking the conditions of your release?" Hutch said, trying to stall. "What happens if someone sees you here?"

"Well, if the plane takes off pretty soon, hopefully no one's gonna see anything."

Hutch settled back down in his seat. He'd been wondering about the small bag Starsky was carrying and now he feared he knew why.

"Starsky, you're not thinking of…"

"Davey," Bree cut in, "don't do this. Haven't you got enough going against you? Hutch is right, what if you get caught?"

"Then I end up in the same crummy place I was just at," he spouted. "Look it, I can't find out what happened sittin' behind bars."

"So, that's it," Hutch said. "You don't trust us enough to do this on our own."

"No, I do trust you, it's just that…" Starsky hesitated as he set his bag down on the floor. "It's like I told you earlier, I can't go to prison."

Hutch watched him shift his gaze over briefly to Bree, then back again. He didn't doubt that she knew what Starsky was implying, and to her credit, Bree remained silent. But this whole idea wasn't sounding good at all, and Hutch dug for something he thought could get Starsky to stay in Bay City.

"There's plenty you can do here. For starters, how about finding out who posted your bail?"

"Already asked. Whoever it was didn't leave a real name, unless you know someone called "Elmer Fudd." Suko's the key, Hutch. We find him, we find some answers. I take it that's why you're going with her. He must be over in Jersey."

"Buddy, I can't let you…" Hutch looked over his partner's shoulder, sickened at recognizing a pair of familiar faces coming across the concourse. Starsky must have read the expression perfectly because he quickly turned around to look.

"Starsky!" yelled Hutch, but it was too late. The brunet had already taken off, running like a scared animal out of the gate area. Quickly turning to Bree, he hissed, "Stay here!" and bolted after his friend.

Hutch could barely make out Starsky's fleeing form, but the blond soon came up on Simonetti's tail. In front of him was Dryden, running at full speed. The long-legged black man was quickly gaining on his target while Simonetti began to fall behind, no doubt due to his insistence on yelling for Starsky to stop running. As they approached a small crowd of people, most instinctively ducked out of the way, except for one couple Starsky couldn't avoid. The impact sent him spinning to the floor, and before he could recover, Dryden tackled him hard from behind. Starsky quickly flipped onto his back and managed to slip one leg out of Dryden's grasp. Cocking it, he slammed his foot into the detective's face, effectively freeing himself and almost knocking Dryden out.

Within a second, Simonetti arrived and pulled his revolver out, pointing it at Starsky.

"Hold it right there," he snarled as he stepped over his half-dazed partner. Breathing heavily, Starsky slowly put both arms back and pushed himself up on his elbows. "Put your hands on top of your head," Simonetti ordered, his voice firm.

Starsky glared at his captor. "Make me," he said.

Hutch stared at his partner, amazed at his actions. Making eye contact, he silently implored Starsky to do what he was told. He didn't know if the show of bravado was just due to his partner's stubbornness, or if it was an act trying to conceal why he had run like some common criminal. Either way, he had never seen Starsky like this and feared that, despite being held at gunpoint, his desperate friend was capable of doing anything at the moment.

Before Hutch could try and warn him, Simonetti leaned forward and started to grab Starsky's arm. With a swift motion, Starsky swept a leg out and caught Simonetti on the side of his calf. The blow caused him to crumple and fall to the ground. Starsky immediately jumped on him and grabbed the hand holding the gun. Both men rolled on the floor, each trying to gain control of the revolver, but within seconds, Starsky finally wrestled it from Simonetti's grasp.

Hutch's attention was diverted when several people around him suddenly scurried away and two Airport Police officers ran up with their guns drawn. Simonetti glanced appreciatively at the arriving backup.

"I'm a detective with the Bay City PD," he gasped out, then slowly reached into his jacket. "Here's my ID and badge. That man has a bench warrant for his arrest."

Starsky said nothing, but kept the revolver trained on Simonetti. The officers warily studied both men, holding their weapons out and ready. As Dryden came to fully, he pulled out his badge and waved it in the air.

"My partner's telling you the truth," he sputtered, holding a hand to the injured side of his face. "We've got a telephone confirmation from Judge Reinhold's office." Pointing to Starsky, he added, "He's wanted for the murder of a police officer."

The airport cops immediately aimed their guns at Starsky. "Drop the weapon right now!" one of them shouted.

Hutch felt someone approach his side and turned to see it was Bree. The look on her face was one of absolute terror. Starsky hadn't even flinched. His attention, and the revolver in his hand, was fully directed at Simonetti. Hutch listened as the officer repeated his order and, when Starsky still didn't respond, knew he had to act fast.

Spreading his arms out, Hutch moved forward and placed himself between the men and Starsky. "I'm also a cop with Bay City, and he's my partner," he said, displaying his palms to show he wasn't a threat. "Let me talk to him, please."

One of the officers gave him a reluctant nod and Hutch turned around to face Starsky. He moved a little closer and slowly knelt down just a few feet away.

"Hey, buddy…you want to give me the gun?"

Without breaking his visual lock on Simonetti, Starsky answered, "Can't Hutch."

The words sent a chill through Hutch. This was someone he had closely known for years, a person just as near to him as a brother, and yet right now, he wasn't even sure this was the same man.

Trying again, Hutch reached a hand out and said, "Starsk, you need to give me the gun—right now, partner. Bree and I don't want to see you get hurt, so let's have it, okay?"

Relief settled over Hutch as Starsky finally glanced his way. He finally noticed the quick and shallow breathing and wondered if his partner had been hurt during the scuffle. But what was particularly disturbing was the lifeless look in the brunet's eyes. As Starsky lowered the gun, Hutch let out a deep breath, thankful that at least on some level, his partner was still thinking rationally.

Mechanically, Starsky flipped open the revolver's cylinder and depressed the extractor rod, spilling the six bullets out onto the floor. Hutch continued to watch as Starsky snapped the empty drum back into the gun, and then lazily tossed the weapon over towards the uniformed cops.

Hutch got up and approached Starsky. Instinctively, he took his partner's outstretched arm, and got up off of the floor. The barely perceptible moan Hutch heard as he did so confirmed his earlier suspicion. He just had a moment to give Starsky a reassuring nod before Simonetti cut in and manhandled the brunet from his grasp. He shoved Starsky up against the wall and, pressing hard against his back, forcefully pulled both arms back and handcuffed him.

Seeing Starsky grimace, Hutch grabbed Simonetti's arm. "Back off of him," Hutch growled, fighting hard to keep his temper controlled.

"You'd better take your own advice, Hutchinson," Simonetti warned, as he yanked his arm back. "Your partner's just a time bomb waiting to explode. At least now, he can do it behind bars."

"Just make sure he gets looked at," Hutch said. "And there better not be a mark on him when you drop him off."

"Yeah, I guess we'll see, won't we?" Dryden stepped in and took hold of Starsky's arm. Still nursing his face with his hand, he added, "So what are you doing at the airport? Helping him jump bail, or were the two of you planning to fly off together?"

"You're the detective, Dryden, you figure it out," snapped Hutch as he watched Simonetti pat around Starsky's torso.

"He doesn't have the ticket on him, but we can call the airlines after we toss his ass back in jail." Simonetti glared at Hutch. "At least we're good enough to tail his sorry butt here without him spotting us. Tell me, Hutchinson—if he's so innocent, what's he doing leaving town?"

"Get out of my face, Simonetti."

Hutch watched helplessly as Starsky was hustled away. He turned to Bree and they embraced. Separating, Hutch said, "C'mon. Let's go. We can't help him staying here."

[1ADA - Assistant District Attorney]

TBC


	19. Chapter 19

Hello! Thanks again for sticking with the story, and especially to my regular posters...you guys make it all worthwhile!

.

Chapter 19

.

Starsky closed his eyes and leaned his head against the window. For now, he was thankful for the silence that filled the car interior. Simonetti had been taunting him ever since they left the airport and, apparently, only decided to stop after Starsky remained silent, refusing to be provoked. On any other day he would have enjoyed going head to head with the sadist, but today nothing seemed to matter.

His life was being sucked down the toilet, right along with his career. He had felt the pull after Rothman, and by the time Gunther had his turn, there didn't seem to be anything to hang onto anymore. Now, helplessly caught in the vortex, Starsky wondered what purpose it served to survive the shooting. Everything that mattered was slipping away from him, everything he had fought so hard to hold on to. And all that was being left behind was just an empty shell of a person, running on automatic to nowhere. Inside of his mind, disturbing thoughts and bits of memories kept playing, seemingly at war with each other to reach full recollection.

_He wasn't sure what had awakened him. It might have been one of the nurses checking vitals, or the abrupt ending of a dream, but as he looked around the room, he realized where he was. Hutch seemed to appear from nowhere, a gentle smile on his face._

"_How're you doing, buddy?" he asked._

_Right then, Starsky could only feel an irrepressible urge to get out of bed, hop in the Torino, and go grab something to eat. But the hazy sensation in his head and the way his body didn't want to cooperate convinced him it wasn't going to be a good idea. Something was definitely wrong. His chest felt different, really tight, and he didn't think his lungs would let him take a deep breath __if he had to. Plus his stomach was all knotted up and sore, not to mention the twisted muscle sensations in his back. _

"_What happened?" he whispered._

_Hutch pulled a chair up to the bedside. Taking a seat, he asked, "What do you remember?"_

_Scrunching up his face, Starsky tried to think back. The first clear recollection that emerged was him and Hutch walking out to the car in the parking lot. They were talking about getting dinner or something like that. Then another image appeared._

"_A black and white…driving fast." Starsky stared at the ceiling, waiting for more of the memory to come back. "Did it…hit me?" he moaned, still finding it difficult to talk._

_Hutch shook his head sadly. "No, it didn't hit you."_

_Starsky gazed steadily at his partner, just wanting him to say what happened because thinking was making him dizzy. And the odd expression on Hutch's face was starting to concern him. It was that kind of look people got when they didn't want to tell you…_

"_Oh God, Hutch," he gasped. Like a vivid nightmare, flashes of gunfire and hot steel piercing his body came flooding in. _

_Hutch grabbed his arm and squeezed it gently. "It's okay. I'm here."_

_A nauseating sensation swept through Starsky. For the first time, he really looked at all the IVs and lines attached to his body. This wasn't good, and it was scaring him. _

"_How bad?" he choked out._

_Hutch dipped his head. "They had an automatic, Starsk…you got shot four times."_

_He gulped hard, afraid of hearing much more. A braver man would've kept asking questions. Starsky could only ask one._

"_Am I gonna die?"_

_Hutch leaned forward then stared intently at him. "Nobody here's given up, and that includes you. You came close, partner…but you're too stubborn to die." Starsky felt his friend's hand move up to his shoulder. "The doctors say you're doing okay, so you just keep hanging in there."_

_Starsky closed his eyes in acknowledgement, but he was sure it didn't hide his fear._

"_Hey," Hutch said, reading him perfectly. "You're gonna walk outta here, you hear me?"_

_Starsky gave him a slight nod, thankful, for the moment, that he was still alive. But for the first time, he didn't feel he could believe his partner. _

_._

Opening his eyes and letting his thoughts return to the present, Starsky wondered about that time in the hospital. He'd never been so close to dying, and technically, he _had_ died; at least that's how the doctors defined it. But he'd never believed them. To him, dying meant traveling through a tunnel into a white light, and watching dead relatives and friends appear with wings on their backs. He didn't see any of that. Still, something had happened that he couldn't explain.

He did get well, and for the most part got his body strong enough to go work on the streets. But there was a part of him that was missing—the part that enjoyed spontaneity and feeling passionate about his job. Somehow, James Gunther had killed that piece of his heart. He hadn't realized it until he'd gone to that robbery call with Hutch. All he'd really done since returning to work was to replace his missing enthusiasm with plain recklessness. He needed the adrenaline rush from chasing an armed gunman or busting down a door, but it wasn't coming naturally anymore. Shit. Hutch was right. He wasn't working at all like a partner, more like some damn vigilante flouting death. And where had it gotten him?

As the car pulled into the secured entryway of the county jail, Starsky closed his eyes. The vision of attacking Simmons and grasping hold of the man's throat was the last thing playing in his mind before the car stopped and his door opened.

.

Hutch and Bree stepped off the plane and headed towards the baggage claim area. After finding their two small luggage pieces, they walked out through the taxi and limousine exit. The air had a particular smell to it, not at all like the ocean scent Hutch was used to. This was more like decay, and the exhaust fumes from all the vehicles driving nearby only made it worse. Hutch hoped they wouldn't be in this city long enough for him to get used to it.

Bree elbowed him and nodded towards a black limo parked a short distance away. Two of the biggest men Hutch had ever seen were standing near it, holding a sign with the name "STARSKY" written in big letters. True to mobster stereotype, they were dressed like characters straight out of The Godfather—expensive suits accentuated with handkerchiefs in the breast pockets, silk neckties, and gold watches. Hutch grabbed both bags, and followed Bree over to the car.

"I'm Breanna Starsky," she said, "And this is my friend Ken."

The thug holding the sign let it fall down to his side. "Renzo said we were only picking up one passenger. Who the hell is he?"

Hutch remained silent. If there had been any doubt of what Bree had told him to expect, it was gone now. He hated to admit it, but just one of these scumbags could beat the crap out of him with one arm tied behind his back.

"I didn't want to come here by myself, so he came with me," Bree insisted, trying to sound calm.

The second mobster spoke up. "I'm smellin' bacon."

Hutch shifted nervously on his feet, trying to decide whether to hold his ground or come up with one hell of a story in the next few seconds.

"He's clean, I swear," Bree broke in. "If Renzo doesn't want him there, then he can say so."

The two men looked at each other, then the first one approached Hutch. "You want a ride, then you get searched."

Glancing around the immediate area, Hutch replied, "I just hope you're not thinking of doing a strip search. I'm a little shy exposing my ass in public."

As one goon grabbed the luggage, the other shoved Hutch against the passenger door. "Someone's always got to be a comedian," he grunted as he quickly but thoroughly patted him down from the shoulders to the ankles. Seemingly satisfied, the man opened the car door and motioned for Bree and Hutch to get in. After their bags were placed in the trunk, the couple was joined by one mobster in the back seat while the other got in the driver's seat.

Not another word was spoken until they reached their destination.

.

The limo pulled up in front of a small restaurant tucked away among a long stretch of businesses near the downtown area. The traffic on the street was heavy, and although it was almost nine-thirty at night, people were still out walking in the brisk winter air. As the passenger door was opened, Hutch got out and saw they were parked in front of "Rosario's" Italian restaurant. A quick glance at the signs and billboards up and down the street left him in no doubt of the ethnicity of the neighborhood, and Hutch could smell whiffs of enticing aromas. After assembling on the sidewalk, the goons then herded him and Bree through the door from which the fragrance was escaping.

The restaurant's interior was saturated in dark shades of red and brown, with black accents throughout. But the glow of candlelight from every table lent it an air of softness. They were led to a rear dining section separated from the main part of the restaurant. In the middle of the room was a large table surrounded by six chairs and decorated with several long-stem candles. Were it not for the clientele in the room, Hutch thought, the place would have been perfect for an intimate dinner.

As they approached the table, two men who were seated rose out of their chairs. One looked like a close cousin of the two that drove them from the airport. The other was a little older and at least had a neck. Hutch watched as he stepped from behind the table and went straight to Bree.

"Well, my kitten, it's been a long time." The man gently took hold of Bree's shoulders and placed a kiss on each of her cheeks. "You look well, and not so different from the last time I saw you. Life has been good, yes?"

"I've had no complaints, and you're looking well yourself."

"Thank you." He looked over Bree's shoulder. "I see you've brought a guest," he said suspiciously.

Bree turned her head towards Hutch. "This is my good friend, Ken Hutchinson. Ken, this is Lorenzo Marcini."

Renzo stuck out a cautious hand, his eyes scanning over Hutch. "If you truly are a friend of my _gattino_[1], then you must know who I am."

Shaking the offered hand, Hutch answered, "Yes, Mr. Marcini. I know who you are...and who you work for."

Renzo smiled thinly. "Where are my manners? Come, sit down," he said, gesturing towards the table. "I hope you brought your appetites."

As they all sat down, Bree glanced over at Hutch. The smile on her face let Hutch know that, for now, they were holding their own.

.

For the next hour, Hutch enjoyed what was possibly the finest meal he'd ever had. Although he would have preferred his own choice of dinner guests, having Bree sitting next to him helped forego that one disappointment. Not surprisingly, the conversation revolved around general, everyday topics, with no mention of what kept Marcini and his associates in such a high income bracket. Unless asked a direct question, though, Hutch kept silent, preferring to just sit back and observe his dinner host.

On the surface at least, Marcini was a well-mannered, handsome man in his mid-forties. He had good taste; not only in fine cuisine but also seemed to know his way blindfolded around vintage wines. Hutch couldn't help but draw a comparison between his father and the mobster as both seemed to be obsessed with their own egos and how well they could navigate around the finer aspects of dining. But Marcini wasn't all that self-centered. He spent a lot of time talking to Bree about her life after leaving New York, and even asked about Nick, but made no mention whatsoever about Starsky.

Hutch wondered how his friend was doing. He felt guilty for sitting there having an excellent meal and drinking expensive wine while his partner was cooped up in a jail cell. For a while, Hutch lost track of the conversation as his mind strayed back to Bay City, missing that special connection with his other half. He was caught off guard then, when the three mob bouncers got up from the table and walked out, leaving only Marcini, Bree and him at the table.

"So, now we talk about what has brought you all the way across the country," Renzo began. Focusing on Bree, he said, "You asked me about Frankie. He is here, that I can tell you."

Hutch felt his heart skip, excited to hear the news.

"Renzo, Ken and I believe he can help clear my brother of a murder," Bree said carefully. "David said Suko was there when a cop was killed, but no one believes him. He's in jail right now."

Renzo took a sip from his wine glass, then leaned back in his seat. "Your brother is a cop, Breanna. A very straight one at that. Maybe, earlier, if he had shown a tendency to do some work for us, the Family might be willing…"

"Starsky would sooner rot in prison!" Hutch blurted out.

Bree flung her arm out and caught him in the side. He flinched then caught Bree's hot glare. Closing his mouth, he glanced over at Renzo. The harsh expression on the man's face convinced Hutch that he needed to keep his opinions to himself. But with Starsky not there to speak in his own defense, Hutch had to say _something_.

"Excuse my outburst, Mr. Marcini, but Starsky is my…he's my partner and he means a great deal to me."

Bree managed to look suitably apologetic as she turned her attention back to Renzo.

"I didn't want to tell you," she said. "But Ken isn't here as a cop; but as a friend, a very good friend, of my family."

Renzo sat his glass on the table and looked at both of them for a long moment. Finally, addressing Bree, he said, "Maybe you have been away too long and forgotten some simple manners, young one. Perhaps, because of that, you could be excused. But you came here expecting a big favor, yet you embarrass not only yourself, but me also. That makes you appear like a pitiful _gavone_[2]!"

Hutch started to get up, but one last dirty look from Bree stopped him instantly.

"Renzo, I would never deliberately hurt you," she pleaded. "You took me in off the street when I had no place to go. And not just because of the bloodshed my father prevented, but for your own reasons. I always did what you asked, and when I wanted to leave, you let me. I've returned only because my brother needs help, help he would never think of asking you for. But he is the son of Michael Starsky, and that earns me the right to come here and expect some consideration."

Renzo tossed his head back, apparently taking what Bree said into careful deliberation. Keeping his hands together, he stretched his arms out across the table.

"I see you haven't lost your temper, but you need to be careful to whom you show it." Picking up his glass, Renzo took another sip while staring intensely at Bree. After swallowing, he announced, "I've spoken with the others already. As you know, my job is to advise, but since this matter is too personal for me to do that, the decision should be made by the _bastone_, the underboss. You can plead your case to him tomorrow night. Suko has been ordered to come in, so he will be here also." Renzo momentarily shifted his gaze to Hutch. "Your friend may join you, but I would strongly suggest that he attend only as moral support—nothing else."

With that, he stood up and walked over to Bree. When she rose, he placed kisses again on her cheeks.

"I was hoping that I could invite you to stay with me overnight as my guest, but I think I know what my answer would be." Taking a business card out of his pocket, he wrote something on the back and handed it to Bree. "Have the driver take you to this address. Ask for the Gionetti Suite. Feel free to enjoy anything you wish, but you must wait there until I call you. Have a good night, and I will see you tomorrow."

Hutch watched the man leave, not surprised that he didn't acknowledge him in any way. He got up and asked, "So, we get to stay in a suite?"

"We?" Bree answered playfully. "I seem to remember him only mentioning me."

"Yeah, well I think there's some catching up _**we**_ need to do." Hutch smiled courteously, but it occurred to him, with everything he had heard tonight, he knew even less now than before about his partner's past, and Bree's.

.

The bellhop opened the door to room 1501, then moved aside as Hutch and Bree entered. Hutch took a quick glance around the spacious suite, impressed by the lavish accommodations. After setting their bags by the two king-size beds, the bellhop walked over and opened the doors on a large, floor to ceiling cabinet. Inside was giant television along with a VCR machine.

"If you need anything, just call the operator for room service. It's available twenty-four hours a day," the bellhop said.

"Thank you," Hutch replied, then watched as the young man turned and left the room. As the door closed, Bree called for Hutch to join her in the bathroom.

"Look at this," she said in awe, pointing to a bathtub big enough to hold three people. "I bet you could almost drown in something like that."

"It's all very nice, Bree. But every bit of it is paid for with blood money."

Bree's smile disappeared. She pushed her way past Hutch and went back into the bedroom. He shook his head, then followed her out.

"Look, I'm sorry…" he started.

Spinning around, Bree lashed out. "You just can't accept the fact that these people are humans too, can you? For some junkie hooker out on the street, you can show compassion and understanding, but you can't even give one bit of consideration for what Renzo and his family are willing to do for us."

"Those are two different things, Bree," Hutch shot back. "That 'junkie hooker' is just trying to survive. Your 'family' is out there stealing and pillaging so their bank accounts can rival Fort Knox!"

Taking a deep breath, Bree angrily replied, "For what it's worth, Ken, I'd fuck the devil if it meant saving David. That's what I don't understand about you. You sat there in the ICU after the shooting and told me about how you'd give your life to save David's. Well, just how much did you mean that?"

"What are you saying?"

"You've said you'd be willing to trade your life for his, but what if you had to tarnish that squeaky clean virtue of yours?"

"Bree, what the hell are you talking about!?"

"I'm talking about getting fucked, Ken! About getting down on your belly and slithering around with the scum of the earth. And all the time you're down there, getting dirty and selling your soul, you're trying to convince yourself that you're doing the right thing." Bree's voice broke and she slumped down on the bed. She buried her face in her hands and started to sob.

"Oh, my God," Hutch whispered to himself then went over to sit beside her. But when he tried to put an arm around the trembling shoulders, she bolted right back up.

"I did what I had to do, for David and for myself. I've always done that and never thought twice about it. Some of those people who I let…they deserved to rot in hell. Others, well at least they gave back something. Renzo was one of those people, in case you haven't figured that out."

She grabbed a tissue out of a box sitting on the desk and wiped her nose. Composing herself, she calmly said, "Dying is the easy part, Ken. Living, that's what's hard. You don't have to go to bed with these people. You don't have to let them control your life. All you have to do is tolerate them long enough to see what they'll give us, and hope to God it's enough to save David."

Standing, Hutch said, "C'mere."

Bree took a few steps towards him. Hutch raised both hands and combed them through her hair. Stopping at the back of her head, he gently lifted her chin and kissed her softly on the lips. He stared at the greenish-blue eyes, still coated with a thin layer of wetness and placed another kiss on her brow. Slowly, he pulled her body into his, and rested his head on the soft pillow of her hair.

"I'm sorry you had to sacrifice that part of you. Love—making love—should be a precious gift between two people who care about each other." He separated from their embrace and lowered his hands to the front of her blouse. Carefully, he started to unbutton the silky seams, watching for any sign of resistance. After slipping the top off, his fingers drifted down to her pants and deftly unsnapped the waistband. A firm pull on the zipper laid the flaps wide open and the garment slid effortlessly to the floor. Bree reached up and, using his shoulders for support, stepped out of her shoes and the pants now piled at her feet.

Hutch quickly unbuttoned his shirt, and after tossing it to the floor, took Bree's face in his hands and pressed his lips against hers. He rubbed his chest against her two soft mounds, and after a few moments, reached behind her back and unhooked the elastic strap on her bra. Freeing it from her body, he cupped both breasts in his hands, gently kneading the soft skin and running his palms over the nipples until they grew tight and firm. Stopping his caresses just long enough to shed his own pants, Hutch then took hold of the feminine body, and lowered both of them onto the bed.

Placing Bree on her back, Hutch began to alternately kiss and suckle the skin around her neck. His excitement grew as the body beneath him squirmed and wriggled. Working his way lower, he ran his tongue up and down the flat stomach, dipping it into her belly button after each pass. Bree brought her hands down from his shoulders and reached out until she could grasp Hutch's hips. She dug under the cotton briefs with searching fingers.

"Not yet," he whispered, then grabbed both tiny wrists with one hand. After placing Bree's hands above her head, Hutch took hold of the top edge of the satin underwear. In one swift motion, he slid the thin fabric off of her hips and halfway down her legs. She threaded one leg, followed by the other, out of the coiled material. Pausing for a moment to feast his eyes on the naked form, Hutch got up and pulled the last piece of his clothing off. He lifted the covers and coaxed Bree to the side to pull them from under her. Crawling back on the mattress, Hutch glided under the sheets with Bree and nestled alongside the warm body.

While he propped his head with one hand, the other skimmed lightly over Bree, stopping every so often to circle around a supple breast or tickle the inside of a thigh. When Bree raised her arms and latched onto his neck, Hutch dipped his head and explored the essence of her soft lips. As his tongue felt around the warm chasm of her mouth, his fingers began to search for her innermost sanctum. Delving around the fuzzy folds of skin, Hutch could feel the warm wetness leaking out from between them. He stuck one finger, then two into the slippery tunnel and began searching for that special spot.

The low moan rumbling from Bree's throat let him know when he found it. Massaging the tender spot, Hutch felt the lithe body begin to respond. He looked into Bree's eyes, and marveled at the way they seemed to darken. Slowly, like a prowling tiger, he shifted his body over until he was straddling her. As he guided himself into the primed opening, Bree closed her eyes and soon began to match his thrusts. Within a few minutes, Hutch could feel his muscles wanting to contract. From the sound of Bree's pleasured groans, he knew she was close. Letting the wave of orgasm take control, he gave a strangled gasp and arched back one final time. He could feel the fluid spurt out of his cock as her inner muscles tightened and helped milk him dry.

As their spasms died down, he gazed at the glowing face below him, satisfied that Bree had come with him. He dropped a gentle kiss on the tip of her nose then moved down to the mouth and sucked on each lip separately. Poised above her, Hutch waited until the fine sheen of sweat dried from his skin, then finally exhausted from their love making and the long day, he collapsed beside her. Cuddling her slumbering body next to his, he had no problem drifting off to join her in sleep.

TBC

1 Kitten

2 A phony or embarrassment to himself or others


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

.

Tired of lying on his bunk, Starsky got up and walked over to the cell door. He looked through the metal bars but couldn't see anyone out in the hallway. It appeared to be a slow morning in solitary because no guards had walked past his cell since his plastic food tray was taken away two hours ago. As far as he was concerned, the entire serving of breakfast belonged in the garbage. Something that resembled oatmeal in a bowl, a piece of cold toast, and lukewarm coffee wasn't his idea of food, especially when it was served before seven o'clock in the morning. Good thing he'd lost his appetite after being brought in the day before. Along with that, the energy to care much about anything was also gone. Otherwise, he knew he would've responded with some snide-ass comment when the jailer that booked him in remarked, "Now that was the fastest turnaround I've ever seen. You only got released a few hours ago!"

He'd been tempted to just slug the idiot, but the jailor wasn't the real target of his anger. That person was already dead. Starsky had to admit, though, not too many deceased people could screw someone so well. And that's exactly what he was; screwed.

Maybe Suko had some answers, maybe he didn't. At the very least he should know how Simmons ended up with two bullet holes. But even if he did, so what? According to the coroner, Simmons died from strangulation. And Starsky had practically confessed; how was he supposed to be found innocent with that stacked up against him?

_Well, you see, judge, I did strangle him, but I wasn't trying to kill him. I think the person that shot him full of lead was the one trying to do that._

He turned back around, and gazed around the small cell, struggling to keep his fear under control. God, it was so quiet. Every now and then, he could hear yelling or the metal echo of a cell door being slammed shut, but other than that, solitary was hell. He hadn't even been in there one full day yet. How was he supposed to survive this for another couple of months? No TV, no radio. Not even a pencil and a piece of paper. And if he did get sent away to the pen, would being in protective custody there be any different? He almost laughed at that description. Why didn't they just call it by its true definition? Solitary confinement—a surefire way of driving someone completely, fucking insane.

His ruminations were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching. Starsky glanced over towards the door to see one of the guards stop in front of it.

"David Starsky?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's me," Starsky answered.

"You've got a visitor. Assume the position."

Starsky let out a muffled groan. There was only a slight difference between the jailor's version of that phrase and a cop's, but both were just as demeaning. He walked over to the cell door where he noticed a second guard standing by the first. Starsky turned around, and placed both arms behind him. Leaning back against the bars, he stuck his hands through the slot in the door. After both wrists were cuffed, he lifted one foot up for the guard to shackle, then waited until the other ankle was cuffed. He shuffled forward and listened as the cell door creaked and slid open. The guards entered the small room and each took hold of an arm. As much as he hated being led away like some wild animal, Starsky ravenously took in as many sights and sounds as he could while being escorted down the hallway.

Entering the visitor's room, Starsky quickly glanced at the row of cubicles, trying to sneak a peek at his visitor. As he was placed into one on the end, the face he saw through the glass partition instantly caused whatever was left of his dignity to crumble.

.

Hutch woke up slowly, squinting from the bright rays of sunlight breaking through the bedroom window. He silently cursed at himself for not closing the curtains the previous evening, and pulled the bed sheet over his head, allowing for some measure of darkness to return. His movements made Bree stir and she rolled over until she faced him.

"Good morning," he said, gazing at her face illuminated by the filtered light. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Hmmm," she mumbled, sounding irritated. "It's too early. Go back to sleep."

Taking a chance at being blinded, Hutch peeked out from the covers and looked at the alarm clock. Ducking back underneath, he said, "It's almost nine-thirty. You don't want to spend all morning in bed, do you?"

Bree laid a hand on his chest and slowly moved it down until it skimmed across his pubic hair and sated genitals. Before he could flinch, she quickly seized his cock. Holding onto it firmly, but gently, she murmured, "What's wrong with that?"

He added a hand to join hers. "Nothing, nothing at all, but maybe a little something to eat first might be a good idea."

Letting her grip tighten a little, Bree said, "I think I already know what I'm having."

Returning the favor, Hutch took hold of a breast and started to massage it. "I was referring to something other than food for the soul."

"Oh, I see. Well, how 'bout calling down for room service, then?" she ventured as she released her hold. Folding the covers away from her head, she added, "I guess we're stuck here until we hear from Renzo…and I have a feeling that's not going to be until later tonight."

"I wonder how Starsky's doing," Hutch wondered aloud.

"Is he safe in jail? I mean, can they keep him someplace where he can't get hurt?"

"Yeah, it's called protective custody. They should put him there, if for nothing else than because he's a cop." He looked at Bree's face, but she didn't appear too comforted by his answer.

"Hutch?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why did David want to shoot that cop?"

Shaking his head, he said, "Shoot? Oh, you mean at the airport?"

"Uh-huh. The frizzy-haired guy. It sounded like the both of you knew him."

"It's a long story, but we go back a bit," Hutch said dryly. "His name's Simonetti."

"Did he do something to David?"

Hutch allowed himself a smirk at the memory. "No, kinda the other way around." Rolling onto his back, he continued, saying, "I don't know why Starsky did what he did yesterday. I think it's just everything that's been happening lately…every time he turns around he's getting blindsided." Hutch thought about Simonetti's comment about Starsky being a time bomb. He didn't want to admit it, but maybe that wasn't too far from the truth. All he knew was he'd never seen Starsky acting like this before, and that it worried him tremendously.

Bree rubbed at an eye, then said, "I'm sure we'll get some answers tonight. Suko's gotta know something, and if he doesn't talk, maybe they'll make him."

As she slipped out of bed and headed to the bathroom, Hutch murmured to himself, "Remind me to never go to a family reunion around here."

.

Starsky was directed to sit in a metal seat bolted to the floor. In front of him was a small counter and a glass panel that separated him from his visitor. A round mouthpiece was set into the glass, similar to the ones at some bank teller windows. One of the guards leaned in and said, "You've got five minutes."

He tried to adjust himself so he could sit more comfortably, but with the handcuffs and shackles still in place, it wasn't easy. Finally, with nothing else left to do, he stared up at the man seated across him.

"How're you doing, Starsky?" Dobey asked, leaning forward and placing his arms on the counter.

"Why're you here, Capt'n?" Starsky blurted out impatiently. Why did people have to come see him behind bars?

"You're still one of my detectives—that's why," came the tight reply.

Starsky snorted. "In case you haven't noticed, I ain't exactly dressed as a detective, even one undercover. And unless I'm mistaken, I'm not earnin' a paycheck anymore either."

Dobey gave him a familiar 'give me a break' look. "I can only imagine what you're going through, but don't let…"

"What I'm goin' through? Forgive me, Cap, but you have no fuckin' idea of what I'm going through."

If he could have done so, Starsky would have taken his words back in an instant. Dobey wasn't the enemy. He was probably one of just a handful of people Starsky had left that would even give him the time of day. He let his gaze wander around the room, then finally settled it back on the captain.

"Whatd'ya come here for? Really?" Starsky plaintively asked.

Dobey shifted in his seat, keeping his attention focused on the brunet. "I want to know why you're jumping bail, and holding another officer at gunpoint. That's not the Dave Starsky I know and respect."

The words cut through him like a jagged blade, but Starsky couldn't bring himself to tell him the truth.

"I got scared, Cap," he answered, bowing his head. "That's all."

Dobey raised both eyebrows, then remarked, "I've seen you scared dozens of times, Starsky. But you haven't ended up in jail." Pausing for a moment, he added, "I've been meaning to tell you something. Something I should have told you before you transferred to MacMillan's precinct, but didn't. It's made me feel responsible for a lot of what's happened."

His attention roused, Starsky lifted his head and stared at Dobey. "How are you responsible?" he exclaimed.

"God knows, you went through hell after the shooting. Sometimes I would leave the hospital and wonder if you were even going to make it through the night. Then you got released and fought so hard to come back to work. But there was something missing, Starsky. I couldn't put my finger on it, but it worried me."

Leaning even closer to the glass, Dobey continued. "I knew you'd throw a fit, say there was nothing wrong. Maybe that's why I never insisted, but looking back now, I should've made you see a psychiatrist—not because you were crazy or couldn't perform your job, but because you experienced one hell of a vicious attack."

Starsky started to say the shooting had nothing to do with what had happened since, but as he thought more about it, he realized that day in May had a lot to do with how he saw himself now.

"Life's full of should haves and what ifs," he said reflectively. "I don't know if seeing a shrink would've changed anything or not, but it certainly don't rate you blaming yourself for what's happened." Starsky broke eye contact for a moment, then remarked, "What's happened here, shouldn't reflect on you. If it does, then that'll be the one thing I do regret."

He stopped talking as one of his guards returned. Offering Dobey a half-hearted grin, Starsky said, "Gotta go back to my cage, Cap."

Dobey watched as he got up from the chair. Just before being led away, Starsky nodded at the man and said, "Just look after Hutch. He's the one that's gonna need help."

.

Hutch scooted over towards the other end of the bathtub, feeling Bree's silky, naked skin brush across his chest. He picked up the half full glass of red wine and, holding it cautiously, slid back to where he was. The lavender scent of the bubble bath, combined with the soothing warmth of the water, was relaxing even his stiffest muscles. Well, except for one particular muscle that was remaining nice and hard, but that one had permission.

"I think we've been in here for at least an hour," he said, then took a sip from his glass.

Bree cupped a handful of bubbles and wiped the suds across Hutch's cheek. "I don't think so; my fingers aren't even wrinkled yet."

"That's because your fingers have been busy doing…other things," he murmured as he bent forward and kissed her lips.

"Well, I bet that area is cleaner than any other part of your body."

"Yes, and it thanks you tremendously." Hutch took another sip then set the glass down on the tiled ledge. "You getting hungry enough for lunch?"

"Maybe something light. It's hard to tell what'll happen tonight. Italians like to eat when talking about business."

Hutch grinned slightly. "I was wondering about something…"

When he didn't continue, she asked, "What's that?"

"You mentioned last night that your dad was killed preventing bloodshed. What did he do?"

Bree lifted a bubble-covered arm out of the water and rested it on Hutch's chest. "Davey never told you?" she asked.

"No," he answered. Hutch thought back to the time he and Durniak had sat in back of the eighteen-wheeler talking about Starsky's childhood. Even then, nothing had been said about why Michael Starsky died.

"When I first got here, David and I had a long talk," Bree began. "He didn't find out until just a few years ago. One of our uncles had come from New York to visit Aunt Rose and Uncle Al. When he and Davey had some time alone, he told him what happened."

"Doesn't sound like something he'd want people to know about." As bad as Hutch wanted to hear the story, he realized Bree had the right to not discuss it.

"I don't know how much he's told you, but David was very close to Pop. He was so devastated when we lost him. I doubt if he believed everything Uncle Sal told him, but after we had our talk, I think he finally had no choice but to accept it."

Bree reached over Hutch and lifted the glass from beside him. His interest in the story momentarily waned as he gazed at the soapy breasts, marveling at their form and sleekness.

Finishing the wine, Bree continued. "Pop had arrested one of Durniak's captains. I'm not sure what for, but it was enough to send him to prison. Pop had grown up with Joe, and despite them being on opposite sides, they still had a lot of respect for each other. Well, this captain knew that and he'd been thinking about leaving with a sizeable chunk of money, so he proposed a deal. He'd give Pop information on some Family members who were planning to kill Durniak, in exchange for letting him go."

"Oh boy," Hutch breathed out. "Your dad was damned if he did and damned if he didn't."

"Yeah. If he'd thrown the guy in jail and told Joe about the plan, he couldn't have offered any names. Then, he could've just kept quiet but I doubt Pop would've done that. I think he and Joe were always looking out for each other."

"So what happened?"

"Pop charged the captain, then told Joe. I guess he knew no matter what he did, people were gonna die. It was probably his way of keeping the killing at a minimum," Bree said glumly.

"Putting himself in the line of fire and saving Durniak in the process. Was he killed by the men who wanted Joe dead?"

"Uh-huh. I guess it tore up the Family for a while, but Joe pulled it back together. Anyway, that's why he paid for Pop's funeral and looked after us—he owed him a lot."

Hutch thought back to the time he first met the mob boss. "When we were escorting Durniak so he could testify, he said something to Starsky about him not wanting to hear about certain facts. Was your dad's involvement with him going to be one of those?"

"Maybe. Like I said, they'd been childhood friends and were probably scratching each other's backs. When I was staying with Renzo, I found out one of Pop's cousins was also connected with the mob."

Hutch shifted more to his side. Quietly murmuring, he said, "So Starsky's only known for a couple of years."

"What'd you say?" Bree asked.

"Nothing, just talking to myself." With the phrase 'still waters run deep' suddenly running through his mind, Hutch let out a deep sigh.

Bree's story had made at least one thing clearer. Normally, on the anniversary of his father's death, Starsky would call in sick and take off somewhere on his own. Hutch never imposed, knowing his partner wanted to be alone. But for the last two years, Starsky had shown up for work and, other than being a little quieter than normal, acted as if it were just a normal day. Hutch didn't ask why. He just assumed Starsky didn't need a special time anymore to think about his dad. The question now was, what did his partner still think about Michael Starsky's legacy?

.

Starsky took the food tray being shoved through the rectangular slot in the door. Glancing at its contents, he wearily set the tray on his bunk and sat down beside it. He lifted the top slice of bread on the sandwich. Cheese and bologna, dry. A half pickle slice lay beside it, along with a spoonful of peas. Grabbing the pickle, he took a few bites then dropped it back on the plate. He couldn't eat that crap. Maybe if he skipped lunch, he'd have an appetite by the time dinner rolled around.

He leaned back against the wall behind him and drew his feet up. He wondered how Hutch was doing, and if he'd discovered anything yet. Starsky knew it'd take a miracle for something to develop that would help him, and deep inside, he hoped Hutch could find it. But he wasn't going to bet his life on it. That's why he'd planned to fly to Jersey. His old home of New York City was just across the river, and he could vanish into the giant but familiar metropolis and stay hidden for a long time if things didn't work out.

Starsky wondered what Hutch's reaction would've been to his desperate plan. He could hear the blond yelling at him, demanding to know why Starsky wanted to add 'fugitive' to his list of charges. But it wasn't all that different from when he'd helped Hutch escape the warrant issued after Vanessa's murder. Sometimes you had to run away from the tidal wave of the judicial process before you were drowned in it. And that's all he was doing. Just looking for his own escape.

A sharp rap on his cell door yanked Starsky out of his musings.

"Busy day for you, Starsky. Your attorney's here to see you." The guard lifted the set of chains and shackles in his hand. "You know the drill."

As he got up from his bunk, Starsky quipped, "Think you could send the maid in and clean this dump while I'm gone?"

The guard answered, "Obviously, you haven't figured out this ain't the Holiday Inn."

"Got that right," Starsky mumbled as the first set of cuffs were snapped on.

After being led back to the visitor's room, Starsky took a seat in the same booth as before. Across from him, Peter Haskins sat looking about as comfortable as a mouse in a room full of cats.

"Good to see you again, Sergeant," the attorney said. "I thought we'd go over a few things before your preliminary hearing."

Starsky stared at him, then replied, "You like to get straight to the point, don't you?"

"Well, that is what I get paid for," Haskins answered, sounding nervous.

"Hey," Starsky said sharply. "It's this side of the window that you've got to worry about being on." Seeing Haskins grin sheepishly, Starsky added, "Which, by the way, any chance of getting me out of solitary? I think I'd rather take my chances with the general population than be cooped up in that box for twenty-three hours a day."

Haskins shuffled through some papers in front of him. "You're being held in protective custody, Sergeant."

"Yeah, I know that, only around here they call it 'solitary confinement.' And knock off with the rank title. 'Dave' is fine."

"Alright. Well, Dave…the main reason you're in solitary is because you're considered a danger to jail personnel. Aiming a gun at a fellow detective will lead some people to make that assumption."

Starsky dropped his shoulders. So much for trying to win any concessions.

"Now, I have some motions I wanted to go over with you to see if we can get the DA's office to reduce the murder charge down to voluntary manslaughter."

"Wait a minute," Starsky butted in. "You're not gonna even try to defend me?"

Setting the papers down on the counter, Haskins explained, "Of course I'm going to defend you, but you have to realize something. If you get convicted on a first degree murder charge, you're looking at life in prison and probably the death penalty, since the victim was a police officer. With a manslaughter conviction, you might get ten years, with the possibility of parole. Now, which would you prefer?"

"Neither!" yelled Starsky, trying to hide his fear. "So the coroner is claiming that Simmons was strangled. Well, maybe I did kill him, but it was in self defense. He was gonna shoot me and the other guy there."

"The investigator's report also states the bullets recovered from the body were fired from your weapon. Dave, unless this witness of yours comes forward and confesses to the murder, I don't see how even Clarence Darrow could get you off."

Starsky lowered his head as the reality of his hell became crystal clear. "Fine. Do whatever you think will work," he said, the fight suddenly gone out of him.

"Well, I think it's important to go over…"

"Didn't you hear me, counselor?" Starsky interjected, trying to keep his anguish from showing.

"Yes I did, but there's some mitigating factors I feel should be addressed in your case."

"What mitigating factors?" he asked gruffly.

"Your mental state, for instance. The fact that you were depressed and still recovering from a near-fatal shooting. Along with that, there's the possibility you were suffering side-effects from your medication."

Starsky shot up from his chair, immediately drawing the attention of his guards.

"I'm not a psychopath or a junkie, dammit! Why don't you take four slugs to the chest and tell me how it feels?" Feeling strong hands tighten on his arms, Starsky took a deep breath, and in a calmer voice said, "Listen, it'd be hard enough getting up and admitting I killed another cop. But there ain't no way in hell I'm gonna let anyone think I was some depressed drug addict. Thanks for stopping by—counselor."

After spitting out that last word, Starsky offered no resistance as he was led away. For the first time in two days, he felt the vise-like grip taking hold of his chest, burning with a vengeance. By the time he was back in his cell, he couldn't hide the pain from his guards.

"Better call in a medical," one of them said to the other.

His partner responded, saying, "Yeah, it never fails. They always seem to get sick right after getting the bad news from their attorney."

As Starsky curled up on his bed, he heard the first guard mutter, "Boy, you're just turning into a real handful, aren't you?"

TBC


	21. Chapter 21

Hope everyone is still enjoying the story. A big thank you goes out to my regular posters!

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Chapter 21

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Bree came out from the bathroom and glanced at Hutch as he turned the volume down on the television. She picked up the ringing phone, paused for a second, then held the receiver up to her ear.

"Hello?"

"_How are you, my dear_?" Renzo's voice asked.

"Fine. Everything has been lovely."

"_Good. In one hour, there will be a limo out front to pick you up. The driver will know where to take you_."

"Okay," she said, looking at Hutch. "We'll be ready."

"_And Bree_?"

"Yes?"

"_Make sure your 'friend' understands what is expected of him. And that, my sweet, goes for you, too. You know how the Family feels about disloyalty_."

"I'll be sure to tell him."

Hearing the 'click' on the other end of the line, Bree hung the phone up.

"I take it that was Marcini," said Hutch as he adjusted the pillows behind his head.

"Yeah. He's sending a limo for us. It'll be here in one hour."

Hutch glanced at the clock on the end table. "Six o-clock, then." Looking back at Bree, he asked, "What else did he have to say?"

"He expects you to mind your manners," she said facetiously.

Hutch leaned over on his side. "Well, he kinda made that clear last night." When Bree failed to respond, he added, "Bree, I promise. I'm not going there as a cop, but as Starsky's friend…and yours."

Bree smiled uneasily, then went and sat down on the bed next to him. "I'm just scared, Ken. This is Davey's life we're talking about. What if we don't find out anything?"

Hutch sat up and placed his arm around her shoulders. "We've just got to keep positive. We're doing everything we can; Starsky knows that."

"Yeah, okay," she said, unconvinced.

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At six o'clock precisely, the black limousine pulled up in front of the hotel lobby. Hutch recognized the two men who got out as the same ones that had picked them up at the airport. No words were exchanged as the passenger opened the car door and motioned for the couple to get inside, but Hutch couldn't ignore the man's intense stare.

Once they were seated, the limo pulled out and merged with the heavy traffic on the street. Twenty minutes later, it turned into an alley and parked in back of a small, brick building. As one of their escorts opened the door, Hutch got out first and took a quick look around. It appeared they were in another business district, but except for a few lights mounted on random buildings, the alley was dark and deserted.

Bree slid out of the rear seat and stood next to him just as a second car pulled into the alley from the other end. The dark-colored sedan slowly approached and stopped in front of the limo. The lights remained on as the engine was cut and two men exited the vehicle. They closed in on the group and nodded towards the other two mobsters.

"These our guests for the night?" one asked.

"Yeah," came the answer from the driver of the first pair. The man pointed at Hutch, and said, "This one gets fully searched. The gal gets done inside."

Hutch snapped his head at Bree, telegraphing his concern.

"It's okay, Ken, I'll be fine," she said. "They're just being careful."

He nodded and stood firm as his jacket was yanked off of him. His shirt was hastily unbuttoned and pulled out from his pants. As one of the mobsters lifted it, another checked him in the headlights, carefully looking for any wires or weapons. Hutch almost started to object when his zipper was jerked down and the pants flaps stretched back, but the searching hands were quick and professional. Apparently satisfied he had nothing harmful on him, the men drew back and Hutch was left to finish dressing.

The couple was then led in through the building's back door. Passing by a large kitchen, Hutch realized they were in another restaurant. Bree was right, these people seemed to insist on having business and food revolve around each other. As they came out into the main dining area, the room was empty except for three well-dressed men sitting at a table in one of the back corners. Hutch instantly recognized Marcini, but didn't know the other men. Two of their escorts stayed with Hutch while the other pair led Bree off to where a sign indicated the restrooms were located.

After waiting anxiously for a few minutes, Hutch was relieved when Bree returned—looking exactly the same as she had before they were separated. Her escorts nodded towards the other two, then retreated into the kitchen. The couple was then shown to the occupied table.

Renzo stood and embraced Bree as he had the night before. The other two men remained seated, their attention focused on Hutch. He glanced at the table and noticed that it was set with fine china and silverware. There was also a bottle of wine chilling in an ice bucket. Seeing that Bree was sitting down, Hutch joined her, wondering if Renzo was going to introduce his associates. But when the consigliore did speak, it was to the two mobsters still standing close by.

"I trust everything checked out okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, they're both clean," one answered.

"That will be all for now. Let Francisco know we're ready for our entrées."

Once the two men had stepped away, Renzo addressed his guests. "I've taken the liberty of ordering for you. I think you'll find the dinner acceptable." He hesitated as a waiter approached the table and took hold of the wine bottle. When everyone's glass was filled, Renzo held his up.

"Salute," he toasted. "To life."

"Salute," was the response from the table.

Hutch took a sip and let it swirl in his mouth before swallowing it. The wine was so smooth it barely tickled his tongue going down. He set his glass down on the table, afraid if he didn't, the entire contents would be gone far too fast.

"Does the wine choice not suit you…Detective?" Renzo asked while still holding his glass in the air.

"No, it's very good. What's the vintage?" Hutch glanced at Renzo's associates, not missing the scrutinizing looks being thrown his way. It wasn't a surprise that they had done some checking on his position with the police department.

"Sassicaia, 1968. It's a red…"

"Bordeaux. Yes, I've heard of it. 1968…wasn't that its inaugural year?" Hutch peered at the men sitting across from him. He was trying not to smirk, but for once, he was grateful for his father's insistence on instilling knowledge of the finer elements of cuisine in him.

Flashing an insincere smile, Renzo replied, "Yes, it was." He put his glass down and cleared his throat. "Perhaps now is a good time for introductions. This man," he said, motioning to his right, "is Anthony Buscetto. And beside him is Salvadore Pistonne."

Hutch barely nodded at the men, then glanced over at Bree who returned his gaze.

Breaking the uneasy silence, Renzo said, "We are all aware of why you are here, but decisions are best made on a full stomach." He looked over at the kitchen entrance, where two waiters had just emerged both carrying large serving trays. As they arrived and set their loads down on collapsible stands, Renzo picked up his wine glass and before taking a sip, stated, "Buon appetito."

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Inside of the jail's infirmary, Starsky lay on one of six beds, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other by his side and handcuffed to the metal railing. He hadn't seen anyone in the last twenty minutes and was starting to wonder if he was just going to be left there for the rest of the night. Trying to keep occupied, he'd looked around for anything interesting but there wasn't much in the sparsely furnished room. Initially glad at the change of scenery, Starsky was bored now and hurting enough that all he wanted was something for the pain and to be taken back to his cell.

Finally, a tired-looking man in his mid-fifties dressed in a lab coat entered the room accompanied by a guard. He barely glanced at Starsky as he approached the bed, his attention drawn instead to the opened manila folder in his hands.

"You're David Starsky?" he asked, still scanning the pages in the file.

Starsky frowned. Didn't these clowns know who their prisoners were?

"Yes," he answered, in a weary tone.

Finally putting his paperwork down, the man said, "I'm Doctor Stevens. Can you lay on your back? I need to examine your chest."

Gingerly, Starsky shifted from his side to lie flat and then unbuttoned his shirt one-handed. He wasn't surprised when the doctor stood still for a moment, gazing at his torso, before grabbing the stethoscope from his neck.

After a few pokes and prods, Doctor Stevens sat down on a stool and wrote some notes in the file lying on his lap. Turning to Starsky, he inquired, "How long have you been experiencing this pain?"

Starsky instantly recognized the first one of the usual twenty-questions all doctors seemed to have memorized. Hoping to speed things up, he briefly explained his condition along with the medications that Doctor Peters had prescribed for him. When he was done, Starsky could barely contain his discomfort any longer and was just a fraction away from grabbing the good doctor's coat and demanding he give him something.

Jotting down a few more notes, Stevens glanced back over the file. Without another word, he got up and left the room, leaving the guard there. Upon returning a few minutes later, he was carrying a pill bottle and a slip of paper, both of which he handed to the guard.

"This medication should ease your pain," he told Starsky. "I've made out the prescription so that you can take it up to four times a day, but it may not be as effective as what you've had previously."

"Anything would be better than nothing right now," Starsky grumbled as he sat up on the bed.

"Before you leave, I would offer this," Stevens began. "I'm not sure what you're looking at, in terms of incarceration time, but I feel the only way this condition can be adequately addressed is surgically."

"Yeah, seems like I've heard that before," Starsky said, a hitch in his breath. The thought of being operated on and then trying to recuperate in jail wasn't something he wanted to dwell on.

"What I'm saying, Mr. Starsky, is that with a condition like yours, I don't believe you can expect any type of surgical redress from the jail."

"Could you say that in plain English, doc?"

"As long as your pain can be controlled with medication, I doubt that the prison system would consider your condition serious enough to provide you with an operation."

Starsky stared at him for a moment, then said grimly, "So what you're saying is, if I'm gonna be locked up for a while, the only thing I can expect as far as treatment is some pills."

"Putting it bluntly, yes. If your condition were to change and become more of a critical issue, then I'm sure it would be reevaluated at that time."

Tugging at his handcuffs, Starsky remarked, "Well, thanks for the encouraging news. If you're satisfied I ain't gonna die then, can I get outta here?"

Stevens turned to the guard and made a motion with his head. "Once you're back in your cell, you'll be given your medication. I've left written instructions for the jail personnel to check on you every eight hours to see if you need pain relief, although I would recommend that you use this drug sparingly. Once your body develops a tolerance to it, it won't work as effectively."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind." Starsky got off of the bed and waited while his hands were recuffed behind his back. He knew the doctor was really saying he wouldn't be getting anything stronger. But all he wanted was to get back to his cage as soon as possible and try not to think about his future as a drug addict.

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Hutch watched as the waiter cleared the remaining dishes. The moment he and Bree had been waiting for was finally here, and there was no doubt the both of them were feeling apprehensive. He discretely looked over at her, and as their eyes locked momentarily, Hutch tried to silently convey his support.

"So," Renzo said, "I believe you have something you wished to discuss, is that right?"

Bree glanced at Hutch, then turned her attention to the other two men. "My brother is in trouble," she began, her voice shaking. "He's been charged with killing another cop and we don't believe he did it. My friend, Ken, is his partner and we want to talk to Frank Suko because he may know something that will help us."

Hutch studied the faces of Buscetto and Pistonne. He wasn't sure which one was the underboss, but neither expression had changed since Bree began talking.

Finally, Pistonne spoke up. "Renzo has told us about your situation. What I want to know is, what if Suko did kill a cop? You think he's just going to admit it, especially to you?" Pistonne asked smugly, looking directly at Hutch.

Without hesitation, Hutch said, "I don't know what he would do, or say. But I won't know unless I ask. And that's all we want; a chance to talk to him."

Pistonne sneered at Hutch, then turned away as though he didn't want anything more to do with the conversation. Buscetto took advantage of the moment, and addressed Hutch.

"Tell me, what makes you think Suko killed this cop?"

Hutch released his breath, encouraged that the mobster wanted to hear more.

"I think there was some kind of deal between the two of them, and the officer decided to double-cross Suko. Part of that deal involved taking Starsk…my partner out. I need to know what that deal was about, and Suko's the only one who can tell me."

Buscetto glanced over at Pistonne, his expression serious but calm. When he got no reaction, Buscetto turned back to Hutch and said, "Alright, Sergeant. You'll be given your chance."

He made a motion to Renzo, who got up from the table and walked out to the kitchen. Hutch shifted his attention to Bree, who was looking just as surprised as he was feeling. He reached under the table and grabbed hold of her hand. Giving it a tight squeeze, he knew they were both thankful for the same thing.

Their focus on each other was broken as Renzo came back, followed by a man Hutch knew in an instant—Frankie Suko! As Hutch watched them approach and sit down at the table, he couldn't help but be sickened by Suko's arrogant manner. He thought back to the cruel injuries the mobster had inflicted on Starsky and unclasped his hand from Bree's, only wanting to form it into a fist so he could knock Suko into next week.

"So what're these two doin' here?" Suko asked Renzo, the smugness disappearing as he nodded towards Hutch and Bree. "You do know he's a cop, and she's…well, she's just strange."

Hutch felt some satisfaction at Suko's show of nervousness. He didn't have to look at Bree to know she was probably staring vehemently at the mobster.

"Officer Hutchinson and Breanna are my guests, Frankie. They flew in from the West Coast last night." Renzo paused as he reached inside of his jacket and pulled out a cigar. Suko kept his attention on the new arrivals, his arrogance deflating even more.

After lighting his cigar, Renzo continued. "Seems like they have an interesting story about you."

"Is that right?" Suko glanced at the higher ups. "Do I get let in on it?"

"Why don't you tell us your version?" asked Buscetto, as he reached for his wine glass.

Suko took a seat in his chair, a defiant gleam developing on his face. "Not much to tell. One of Bay City's finest pinched me at a weak moment, but we worked out a deal. I'd go around causing problems for the cops, he'd get the satisfaction of seeing a guy he had it in for look bad."

Hutch had to clamp himself down to keep from jumping through the gigantic hole in that story, but thankfully, Buscetto saved him the trouble.

"This deal, Frankie…what did the cop have on you? I mean, he wasn't going around holding your hand all that time, was he?"

Suko's eyes narrowed. "He told me I had a warrant—kidnapping, or something like that. Plus, he caught me holding a little bit of tribute. I figured what he was asking wasn't that much for kicking me loose and gettin' some of the money back."

"So how does her brother get involved in all this?" Buscetto asked, nodding at Bree.

"He must've found out we were gonna meet. The cop got all cocky telling her brother what a _gavone_ he was and started bragging about our deal. Curly-head got all bent out of shape and went to take out a few of his frustrations. While them two was going at each other, I decided it wasn't worth it for a few G, so I split."

If it wasn't for Bree's hand clamping down on his knee, Hutch would have already been out of his seat and taking his own frustrations out on Suko. He knew the mobster's version to be entirely self-serving, but at least Suko had admitted two important things—that he'd been there in the warehouse, and that he and Simmons did have some kind of deal.

Buscetto looked at Renzo, who was still smoking his cigar, then turned to Pistonne. Seeing a nod from the man, Buscetto remarked, "Frankie, you know the Family was seeing a lot of potential in Rothman, enough to spot him a decent monetary advance. But after that last…business transaction he organized, seems there was talk of someone _eating alone_ at his table."

"What are you saying? That I was goin' south?"

Hutch was sure he wasn't the only one who could hear the tension in Suko's voice.

Unexpectedly, Renzo cut in. "Our friends in LA agree there was a lot of money unaccounted for from that deal. Money that never showed up in the cop's hands."

"And you think I was the one who took it?" Suko sneered. "Did anyone think to maybe check under Vinetti's mattress?"

"Lou's in prison, Frankie…which is probably where you belong."

"Did I just hear you right, Marcini?" Suko asked sharply. "Why don't you just put a bullet in my brain while you're at it?"

"Not a bad idea," Buscetto proclaimed, staring coldly at the accused.

Hutch watched the scene unfold, hardly believing what was happening, and wondered if Bree was having the same reaction. Instead of looking at her, he kept his attention on the mobsters, afraid he would miss something.

"So, is that it?" Suko shot Bree venomous look. "She tell you something? I'm sure it was a doozy. Bitch probably made it up because I had some fun with her brother a while back."

When no one offered an answer, Suko continued. "I don't fuckin' believe this. I've been part of this Family for over twenty years!"

"Which is why you're being given a pass, Frankie," replied Buscetto. "But don't mistake the offer for kindness. You did a good job, until you decided to go in for yourself. It's only your past loyalty that has spared you from something worse."

At that moment, two thugs came out of the kitchen and approached the table. What Buscetto did next was the last thing Hutch would ever have imagined.

TBC


	22. Chapter 22

Thanks everyone!

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Chapter 22

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"Get his gun," Buscetto ordered.

With quick efficiency, the two guards seized Suko and retrieved the revolver hidden under his jacket. The soon-to-be ex-mobster didn't resist, perhaps knowing that doing so would only result in even swifter retribution. Handed the revolver, Buscetto ejected the rounds on the table then passed the weapon over to Hutch.

Seeing the surprised look on the officer's face, Buscetto said, "I would think you'd be a fool if you didn't have a warrant, Detective."

Hutch felt under his coat, fingering the folded piece of paper inside. Before leaving Bay City, he had asked Dobey for a copy of the warrant charging Suko with Starsky's kidnapping and assault. The two men had also spoken with the DA, making sure Suko could be extradited back to California if he were located.

"I don't understand," Hutch replied. "You're just handing him over?"

Buscetto sighed. "To an outsider, that's how it may appear. There's a long history here that you're not aware of and I'm not at liberty to discuss." He motioned to Pistonne, and both men rose from their chairs. As Buscetto buttoned his jacket he addressed Renzo.

"I'll see you in the morning, usual place and time. See that Frankie is taken care of, and make sure you notify our friends out West."

With that, Pistonne and Buscetto headed out the front door.

"I usually prefer not to talk to the police, unless it's one we have working for us," Renzo remarked, getting Hutch's attention. "There's a phone in the kitchen, if you'd like to make a call…"

It took a moment for Hutch to realize what Renzo was inferring. He patted Bree on the arm then got up and went into the kitchen, but not before taking another look at Suko. He phoned the local police department, then returned to the table and sat down.

"They should be here in a few minutes," Hutch said. Suko's stone-like face revealed nothing, but Bree and Renzo seemed quiet and withdrawn. Hutch had some things to say to Marcini, but decided to wait until Suko was secured in the back of a patrol car.

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Back at the county jail, Starsky lay on his bunk. He'd been staring at a small bug slowly making its way around the walls of his cell. For now, the creature was close to the ceiling and far enough away so when the lights got dimmed, it wouldn't be anywhere near him. The thought of just killing the thing crossed his mind, but it was just as much of a prisoner as he was. Feeling sympathetic, Starsky decided to give it a stay of execution. He took a deep breath, and was relieved that the effort didn't cause much pain. The pills the doctor had given him at least took the edge off, but they weren't as strong as what he had back home.

Home. Starsky would give anything to be sprawled out on his couch, right now, watching a good monster flick, or even a bad one. For the umpteenth time that night, he wondered if Hutch and Bree had found out anything. Although he wanted to believe that locating Suko would automatically get him freed and set everything right in his life, the truth was far from it. Even a simple thought as to whether he'd ever see his house or car again was an exercise in torture. His future seemed to center on only two possible outcomes, neither of which contained much hope.

Going to prison for a few decades appeared to be the most likely result. The other alternative was a bit brighter—that the charge against him would be miraculously dismissed, and he'd be placed back on the force partnered with Hutch. But even this possibility had no guarantees of a happy future. One day it would happen again—he'd become someone else's target. Maybe on a call, maybe while just sleeping in his own bed—not like that hadn't happened before. Or worse yet, someone he cared about would die because of him—again.

The lights around him blinked a few times then turned off, leaving only a dimly lit hallway in their wake. This was the time he was beginning to hate the most. Even though the darkness hid the reality of being in prison, ironically it emphasized the bleakness of the place. As secure as he was inside the cell, he'd never felt so vulnerable. He hated being shackled every time he was allowed out. With his hands cuffed behind, he had no way of defending himself. Even though he'd seen nobody but guards, the fear of being suddenly attacked never left his thoughts. And the way he was chained up just to go take a shower, then told to strip and left standing with his privates on display. On top of that, he was sure everyone enjoyed getting an eyeful from the mass of scars on his body. Talk about feeling like some freak in a side show…

Feeling overwhelmed, Starsky shifted onto his side and pulled the blanket up to his chin. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he stared out towards the quiet hall. Other disturbing thoughts began to litter his mind, and a forgotten memory surfaced unexpectedly.

_It should have been a good day. The feeding tube was scheduled to be removed, one of only two catheters still left in his body. Even though he felt drugged to the gills, Starsky's awareness about things happening around him__ had been growing clearer by the day. He knew he'd been shot, and the doctors were being tentative at best about a full recovery, but that didn't matter. Hutch, Bree, Huggy and Dobey, one of them always seemed to be there, encouraging him, telling him how great he was doing._

_On this day, it had been Hutch. They'd been talking about what would be the first real thing Starsky should eat. Although Hutch tried to get him to go for chicken soup, a chocolate shake eventually won out. As the time grew closer, Starsky wondered why he was getting so excited about indulging in such a simple thing like that. Maybe it signified a return to normalcy—at least to a life that didn't revolve around doctors, needles, and drugs. Whatever the reason, he just wanted to hold that cup in his hand and suck down the creamy mixture fast enough to give himself a brain freeze. It was a small desire, nothing big._

_Since waking up in the hospital, he hadn't asked for much. Hutch had escaped being hit. That had been the biggest fear and the thing Starsky was most grateful for. As far as his own recovery was concerned, he needed to be patient and just let things heal. Well, maybe in someone else's world, but not his. Getting that nose tube out and feeling ice cream slip down his throat was only going to be the beginning. He'd show everyone who doubted whether he'd make it that he could beat the odds—no matter how bad things looked._

_All that optimism vanished the moment his doctor entered the room._

"_David, I'm sorry but we're going to keep that tube in for a few more days. I don't think your system is ready yet, so let's give it a little more time, okay?"_

_There wasn't much he could do, other than pretend he agreed with the doctor's assessment and show a faked smile. But once the physician left, all that disappointment began leaking to the surface. Hutch instantly noticed the first cracks in the dam._

"_Hey, buddy, it's gonna be okay. Just a little setback, that's all."_

_Starsky gazed at him through watery eyes. His best friend, the one person who should know him best, and he didn't understand. Starsky tried to hold the emotions in, but his armor wasn't strong enough._

"_Ah fuck, Hutch…why? All I wanted was to get one damned hose out of me! That asking too much? Huh?"_

_Before his partner could answer, Starsky lifted his head and inspected the IV stand by his bed. Not finding what he wanted, he shifted his attention over to the nightstand, spotting a tray with a cup of iced water on it. It wasn't what he had in mind, but he reached over and grasped the edge with his finger tips. Yanking with all his might, he sent the tray and cup flying across the room. It barely missed Hutch, but struck the wall behind him with enough force to chip the plaster. After the impact, both men were hunched over. Hutch, from ducking down…Starsky, curled up in pain. _

"_Starsk?" Hutch ventured as he stood back up._

"_Oh shit, oh shit…" Starsky wasn't sure what he'd done, but the pain slicing through his side wasn't letting him take in a full breath of air._

_An hour later, he had acquired a nasal cannula and three heart monitor leads. His abdomen and chest had been palpated so much that Starsky thought he'd turned into the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Satisfied his exam was complete, the doctor finally finished and gave him a shot of morphine. Handing the empty syringe to the nurse, he gazed down at his patient in disapproval. _

"_I don't think there's any internal bleeding," he began. "You may have pulled some stitches, though, so we'll have to monitor you closely for the next few hours." The room was empty now and letting out a tired sigh, the doctor pulled up a chair and sat down. Starsky lay complacently on his good side. He hoped the drug would kick in fast so he wouldn't have to listen to a professional version of 'what-the-hell-were-you-thinking?'_

"_David, I'm doing everything I can to make sure you leave this hospital in the best shape possible. However, I can't make you submit to anything you don't want to."_

_Starsky shifted uncomfortably on the bed. This wasn't sounding like what he expected to hear._

"_I know it's hard for a strong person to find themselves dependent on others, but you need to understand something. There are enough things working against you right now without adding pride to the mix. So here's an offer. You can either trust me to make decisions in your best interest, or the second you feel you can walk out that door, I'll have an AMA release ready for you to sign. Which would you prefer?"_

_Starsky buried his head deep into the pillow. "I'll do what you say," he muttered. _

_The doctor gave him a quick smile, then gathered his clipboard and headed out of the room, leaving Starsky alone with his thoughts. _

_As the morphine took hold, he recalled an earlier time when he'd been forced to trust in another's decision. That had ended up in a cross country journey and tore him away from the only family he knew. But being only fourteen years old, he'd had no choice._

Now, nearly twenty years older, he had no more control over his fate than he'd had back then. Bellamy, Gunther's field day, being kidnapped by Rothman, sitting in jail charged with murder—each time was like riding a runaway rollercoaster, with him scared and unsure how long he could hang on. Maybe someone was trying to tell him that staying alive was causing more harm than good. How many bad people were still around because of him? How many good ones were dead? What if he wasn't supposed to have survived Gunther's hit? Starsky thought back to that one black night after the shooting, when he'd been home alone and feeling so damn lost. He wanted to pull the trigger. Deep inside, he knew it was the right thing to do and, son of a bitch, he'd felt in control for once. But he couldn't. Not by his own hand…but what if?

Pushing the lid down hard on his thoughts, Starsky closed his eyes. He'd have plenty of time to think about it again tomorrow. Chances were he'd still feel the same. With his mind as tired as the rest of him, he let the rhythm of breathing help him escape into a blissful state of sleep.

.

Hutch watched as the patrolman opened the cruiser's back door while his partner kept a firm hold on Suko. He wished Starsky could see this. It might have helped to erase some of the pain his partner had been carrying around for so long. Just before the handcuffed felon was placed inside, Hutch took one last look at the mobster's face, wanting to commit it to memory, so he could accurately describe Suko's expression to Starsky when he saw him again.

Locking eyes with Hutch, Suko said, "We've got things to talk about, ya know."

"You bet we do," Hutch said tightly.

A smirky grin appeared on Suko's face. "You ain't holding all the cards, pig. Trust me."

"We'll see."

Hutch stood on the sidewalk and watched as the officers got in the car and drove away. He wondered what secrets Suko might be holding, but didn't dwell on it. Hutch planned to interview him the following morning anyway. For now, though, there were other questions he longed to have answered. Taking one last look at the departing car, Hutch went back inside the restaurant.

Returning to the table, Hutch noticed that Bree and Renzo were having a conversation that ended quickly as he got within earshot. Bree still greeted him with a smile while Renzo snuffed out the last bit of his cigar.

"I trust your friends have taken Frankie to jail?" Renzo asked.

"Yes…" Hutch said as he settled in his chair. Pushing his awkward feelings aside, he added, "Mr. Marcini, I've been a cop for a long time and I've seen a lot of interesting things. But I don't think one of them has included seeing a hit man turned over to the cops by his own people. What's really going on here?"

"Is this for your report, Detective, or for your own personal information?"

"Whatever you tell me stays in this room," Hutch replied convincingly.

Renzo lifted his empty glass and motioned towards the bottle chilling in the ice bucket. Hutch grabbed the wine and filled the glass.

Leaning back in his chair, Renzo asked, "What do _your_ people do, when a dirty cop is found out?"

Sticking the bottle back in the cooler, Hutch said, "Probably the same thing you just did, but…"

Renzo's eyebrows raised and he peered over the top of his glass at Hutch. "But what? Are you implying that the police have more scruples than the rest of society?"

"No, I…it's just that you hear stories about mob members who fink ending up at the bottom of the ocean with cement boots."

"That only happens in the movies," Renzo said, then chuckled softly. Setting his glass on the table, he stared at Hutch for a long moment before he continued. "Before I became a made man, there was a _capo_, a captain, who didn't agree with how Joe Durniak was running things. He felt he was taking too big of a cut, so he got his crew together and convinced them to permanently remove Durniak from power. Today, we refer to them as the 'Black Five.'"

Bree turned to Hutch. "The man he's talking about is the one I told you about last night," she said. "His name was Giovanni Suko—Frankie's father."

Hutch swallowed hard. So much made sense now, especially why Suko had gone after Starsky so violently after he'd kidnapped him. But one thing wasn't immediately clear.

"If you knew all this time, why didn't you tell me? Or Starsky?" he asked Bree.

"Renzo just now told me. I never thought to ask before because shortly after Giovanni went to prison, he was murdered."

Hutch glanced back at Renzo. "So what's Giovanni got to do with what happened tonight? Obviously, the sins of the father didn't keep the son from joining the mob."

"Frankie was watched closely after joining the borgata. But after a few years, no one doubted his loyalty anymore. It wasn't until Breanna phoned me the other day that I got around to checking a few things out. The rest is, as some would say, 'history.'"

"So, I assume that Suko won't be expecting anyone to bail him out, but is there anything else he should be concerned about?" Hutch asked, mimicking the mobster's roundabout way of talking.

"Suko's been given a pass. He doesn't need to worry about any further contact from us."

Sensing their time was coming to an end, Hutch had one last thing to ask.

"Mr. Marcini, someone put up Starsky's bail. That was a lot of money and I'm sure he would want to express his gratitude. Might there be a name I could pass on to him?"

Renzo smiled. "I'm sure that party would prefer to remain anonymous, but I'll make sure the appreciation gets mentioned."

.

The next morning, Hutch woke up next to Bree, much like he had the previous day. After arriving back at the motel last night, the two barely made it inside their room with all their clothes on. With much of their tensions about the trip relieved now, Hutch could've sworn the lovemaking went on for hours. The last thing he remembered was collapsing beside Bree shortly after his third orgasm. Now, poking his head out, he took note of the time then snuggled back under the sheets.

"Good morning," he whispered in Bree's ear.

"'Morning," came her soft but hoarse reply. She rolled onto her side and looked peaceably into his eyes.

He gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead. "You look beautiful this time of the day," he murmured.

"Liar. You just want to fuck again," Bree replied playfully.

Hutch chuckled. "Yes, I do. But I've got to be down at the station in an hour," he said as he swept a stray lock of hair from her eye.

"You think he's gonna tell you anything?"

"I think he can't wait to spill what he knows. I just hope it's something that can get Starsky out of jail."

.

Starsky played with the sticky substance in the plastic bowl, seeing how much he could get to stay on his spoon before it dropped off. It was supposed to be oatmeal, at least that's what it was yesterday, but as far as he could tell, no one had figured out the crap needed sugar. He let go of the spoon, and watched it plunge into the gooey mix. Pushing the bowl away, he picked up the piece of toast, eating the soggy middle, then threw the crust back on the tray. He didn't even try the coffee, certain it would taste as horrible as the last time.

His stomach grumbled as he lay down on the bed. This new diet sucked big time. Fortunately, lunch was only five hours away, so maybe he wouldn't starve between now and then. He looked back at the breakfast tray and, after a moment's hesitation, grabbed the discarded crust and started to nibble on it. The bread was hard and virtually tasteless, but it was still food. Hell, if the guards didn't come fairly soon to collect the tray, he'd probably finish eating the oatmeal, too.

Starsky wondered if he'd hear something from either Hutch or Dobey today. He missed being able to do simple things like making a phone call, or peeing in private. Not to mention how embarrassing it was when he really had to go. He missed the taste of a cold beer and the smell of hot pizza. And he missed the sunlight.

The exercise yard he visited for an hour each day reminded him of the cold, damp basement Rothman held him captive in. The floor and twenty-foot walls were all cement and the area would barely hold two small cars parked end to end. The walls were topped off with two foot wide Plexiglas awnings and loops of barbed wire. Through the open middle, he could see a patch of sky, but he doubted if there was ever a time of day when sunlight made down to the floor.

For the last two days, most of his hour was spent walking in circles until he got dizzy, then he'd pick a corner and sit down. He'd lay his head back, close his eyes and try to hear anything outside those four walls. Yesterday he pretended he was sitting on the beach, digging his feet into the warm sand and watching seagulls circling overhead. It was nice while it lasted, but the dream ended abruptly when the door swung open and a guard yelled out his name.

Back on his bunk, Starsky closed his eyes, trying to keep the misery at bay. He wondered about pleading guilty to the manslaughter charge, if worse came to worse. After all, there seemed to be no doubt he had a part in causing Simmons' death, even if it was justified, and if Hutch couldn't find Suko, Starsky wasn't going to stand a chance at a trial. Also, if that attorney of his was right, being locked up for ten years was nothing compared to a lifetime. Hell, after a decade, most people would either have forgotten about him or have moved on with their lives. He could probably stick his head out in public and not be worried about what anyone had to say. But maybe the ones who really cared would still be around and just be glad he was out of jail. At least, he hoped they would.

.

In an empty interview room, Hutch sat at a desk, mentally going over the questions he wanted to ask. His New Jersey counterparts seemed only too happy to give him full rein in dealing with Suko, probably viewing the arrest as one less crime they had to concern themselves with. Hutch could only imagine their workload. His introduction to the department's Homicide Division had been an office that could encompass the entire fifth floor of his own precinct. While he had marveled at the manpower potential, Hutch couldn't imagine doing nothing but work murder cases all day long.

The sound of someone talking outside in the hall interrupted his thoughts.

Suko walked in escorted by two uniformed officers. Seeing him deprived of his fancy suit and wearing bright orange jail coveralls, much like Starsky's, sent a wave of immense pleasure through Hutch.

"Do you want him cuffed to the chair, Detective?" one guard asked.

Hutch glanced at the metal seat bolted to the floor then back at Suko who was handcuffed in front with a short chain connected to a leather waist belt.

"No, that won't be necessary."

"Alright, someone will be right outside if you need us."

With that, the two men left the room leaving Suko standing by the chair. Hutch got up and, ignoring the mobster's smug look, asked calmly, "Want to sit down?"

"Why? Do I make you nervous?" Suko replied.

"Suit yourself." Hutch folded his arms, then remarked, "You said last night that we had things to discuss."

Suko stepped around to the front of the chair and sat down. "Well, your memory sure is sharp. That apply to the rest of you?"

"You know, even scumbags like you are entitled to an attorney. Why don't you just sit here on your ass for a few hours and I'll go scrape one up out of the gutter?"

Suko let out a huff of air. "Okay, you blond fuck. But that attitude of yours better start disappearin' fast. So, where's that kike partner of yours? You know, he should be selling that fine ass out on the street instead of wastin' it hanging with you. Or, would that make you too jealous?"

Hutch lashed out at the puke, but caught himself just as he grabbed hold of Suko's shirt.

"Now you listen, you piece of shit. Either you start telling me what you think I don't know, or I'm walking out of here right now!"

"My, aren't we gettin' hostile? Alright, blondie…but only if you ask politely, or you ain't gettin' squat. Better yet, maybe I should just hold off until the DA offers me a deal that's acceptable."

Tightening his grip on Suko, Hutch sneered, "What makes you think you've got _anything_ worthwhile to offer?"

"Now, didn't I just say you had to ask nicely?"

Hutch shoved himself off of Suko. "Spill!"

"Okay, you prick. That cop that got blown away in the warehouse?"

"What about him!?"

The seated man gave Hutch a conniving smile. "He had help screwing your partner."

TBC


	23. Chapter 23

Hi Everyone, thanks for your continued interest in the story. A great big thanks goes out to those faithful posters...I'm so glad to have you!

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Chapter 23

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Hutch let the phone drop back onto its receiver. Bree hadn't sounded very convinced by his excuse, but neither had she asked too many questions. Hutch knew he could tell her anything, but for now he was having a hard enough time dealing with what he'd just heard. Rising from the table in the squad room, he grabbed his coat and paused to thank the detective sitting nearby for the use of the phone. He needed to go and find someplace to think. The beach would've been perfect, but this wasn't Bay City. Making his way out of the police station, Hutch started walking down the street. Within a few minutes, he saw the first bar and went inside.

The clock on the bedside table showed two-thirty. Tired of watching television for the last three hours, Bree got up from the bed and turned the set off. She went across the room to a large window and looked out towards the New York City skyline. Her heart felt homesick being so close to Rachel but this was one time she couldn't go and see her adoptive mother. She doubted if David had phoned her lately and to show up so unexpectedly would certainly cause Rachel to question what was going on. Bree wondered if she should call anyway, but until she found out more from Hutch, perhaps the less said now, the better.

Just as she decided to go down to the lobby for a break, Bree heard someone unlocking the door and breathed a small sigh of relief when Hutch entered the room. Her delight, however, was short-lived.

"Where have you been?" she asked innocently. "I was starting to worry."

Hutch took off his jacket and walked over to her. "Sorry," he said, tossing the coat on the bed.

He took Bree in his arms, and the reek of cigarette smoke and booze immediately hit her.

"You smell like you've been indulging in some of the local flavor," she groaned.

"Pretty noticeable, is it?" he asked.

Bree pushed away and said, "I thought you said that your interview with Suko went okay. Were you just making that up?"

"No…he talked. He said Simmons wasn't the only one trying to set Starsky up."

Waiting as long as she could for Hutch to elaborate, Bree anxiously exclaimed, "So, who else was involved?"

"Suko didn't give a name."

"Then how—"

"Because of what he told me," Hutch broke in. "He's playing it smart. He said just enough so I'd know he wasn't blowing smoke. Whatever else he's got, I'm sure the DA is going to want to hear it."

Bree edged closer. "So, what are you saying? That he's gonna get off? What about the fact that he tried to kill Davey?" she asked, her voice raised.

"Look, I doubt he's going to get away with anything, but we'll have to wait and see what the DA wants to do."

"And what about what Davey wants?" Bree said. "Doesn't he count?"

"Of course he does. Let's not jump to any conclusions, okay? I made reservations to fly back to LA tomorrow. We'll be on the same flight, but I put you up front by yourself. I didn't think you'd want to sit with me and Suko."

"You're right about that. What time is the flight?"

"It leaves here at ten-thirty. Did you eat lunch?"

"I tried waiting for you. I thought you'd be back before noon."

Hutch glanced over at the clock. "I'm sorry. I didn't realize it had gotten so late. You hungry enough to go out somewhere?"

"Does that mean you're buying?"

"Yeah, I'd feel better if I could spring for at least one meal here. Anything but Italian, okay?"

Bree smiled. "How does Chinese sound?"

"Sounds good. But if you get hungry again in a few hours…"

.

Standing with his back against the cell door, Starsky waited as the remaining handcuff was removed from his wrist. The hour spent out in the exercise yard had gone by quickly. Unlike the day before, the weather today was cool and cloudy and he'd passed the time by constantly walking, more in an attempt to keep warm than anything else. When the last shackle was taken off, one of the guards shoved an opened letter through the metal bars.

"Legal notice from your attorney," the man said, then walked away with his partner.

Starsky sat on his bunk and removed the document inside the envelope. Scanning through the details, he noticed his preliminary hearing was scheduled to be in three days, with the charge still listed as First Degree Murder. Frustrated, he wadded up the paper and threw it against the wall. It was getting close to dinner now and past time for any visitors to be allowed. Starsky grudgingly accepted he'd have to spend another night without any news from Hutch.

Leaning back against the wall, he began to think about Rachel. He hadn't called her the week before and the time for his next call was fast approaching. Rachel would have already started celebrating Hanukkah and images of the menorah lit up in the living room window played through Starsky's mind. Even though Ma had never converted any of the family to Judaism, Starsky always liked taking part in both Christian and Jewish traditions, especially this time of the year. But how was he going to explain to her where he planned to be this Christmas?

Starsky looked around his cell, and tried to picture it decorated in a holiday theme. A string of lights wrapped around some of the metal bars and a big Christmas wreath hung right in the middle would look nice. And the wall above the stainless steel toilet was the perfect place for a stocking. He thought about a tree with presents underneath, but figured that would be pushing it. Hearing the sounds of dinner being served down the hall, Starsky wondered if the menu changed at all on Christmas. Maybe the jail staff splurged and threw in a candy bar, or upped his exercise time to an hour and a half on that day. One thing was certain: other than the first Christmas without his Pop, this December 25th was going to be the worst one he'd ever seen.

.

Hutch stepped into the squad room and, for a moment, reflected on how small it looked compared to the one back in Jersey. But it was home and the only thing missing was a certain curly-haired individual sitting at the far desk. Hutch went up to Dobey's door and knocked. Hearing an acknowledgement, he entered.

"Close the door," Dobey said, tossing the report he was reading off to the side. "How was the trip back?"

"It was okay, if you like spending five hours sitting next to the man who almost killed your partner."

Dobey showed a slight frown. "Did the officers meet you at the gate?"

"Yeah, Suko's been taken care of. He's probably fluffing the pillow on his cell bunk right now."

"Hard to imagine him and Starsky being in the same jail." Dobey's voice trailed off.

Hutch nodded, then said, "Captain, when I called you yesterday, there was one thing I didn't mention."

After a long moment, Dobey said gruffly, "Well, I'm not a mind reader, Hutchinson. What was it?"

"I think the person Suko was talking about…is a cop."

"You'd better have something more than intuition backing up a statement like that," Dobey replied, giving Hutch a hard stare. "Who do you think it is?"

Hutch took a deep breath. "Babcock, Capt'n. I think it was Simmons' partner."

"If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were joking. What gave you that idea?"

"Nothing I could swear to, but the more I think about some of the things he did or said, it just makes me suspicious. And they were _partners_."

"Do you know everything your partner does twenty-four hours a day?" Hutch's eyes grew wide, but Dobey raised a hand before he could answer. "I know where you're going with this. I'm just saying that some people could use that same argument and accuse you of covering for Starsky. What makes you so sure it might be him?"

Pulling up a chair, Hutch sat down. "It's a long shot, but that night before going to the warehouse, we went over to dispatch to check on a possible lead. Babcock disappeared for a while and I found him talking on the phone; he hung up as soon as he saw me. And Starsky mentioned that when Simmons showed up at the warehouse, he told Suko that the cops were already looking for him."

"For who, Suko?"

"No, Starsky. Simmons must have already known about that APB I put out. Now, how does a detective _on vacation_ learn about something like that so fast?"

Dobey reached in his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "So what's Babcock's motive for protecting Simmons?"

"Money. Suko said Simmons caught him with some payoff. He claimed it was just a few thousand dollars. But one of the mob bosses mentioned there was a lot of cash unaccounted for after that drug shipment of Rothman's came in. Now, I don't know exactly how much, but with the size of that shipment, it could have been in the hundreds of thousands of dollars."

Dobey shook his head. "I'm not saying I don't think you're onto something here, Hutch—but proving it?"

"Well, it's better than letting Suko lead us around on a leash. Did you talk to the DA?"

"Yes. Sims didn't sound too excited." Seeing Hutch's expression change, Dobey added, "The way he sees it, the right man is in jail. But he'll talk to Suko…along with Simonetti."

"Oh, that's great. I can see this being a completely unbiased interview," Hutch said dejectedly.

"It's the best we've got going right now," Dobey declared. "Let's just hope Suko's got an ace up his sleeve."

.

Hutch leaned his shoulder against the wall in the jail interview room. He hadn't stopped thinking about Starsky since he'd arrived with Dobey and the Sim's twins. He'd wanted to visit with his partner after talking to Suko, but the clock on the wall showed it was almost three-twenty already and visiting hours ended at four. Besides, everyone had come in the same car, so any time spent with Starsky would be cut short anyway.

Sims and Dobey, seated at the desk, were looking through some paperwork, and Simonetti was standing off in a corner, obviously wanting nothing to do with Hutch. That was fine; hopefully the bastard would hear something from Suko that would change his opinion of Starsky's guilt. Hopefully.

The door opened and Suko shuffled in wearing shackles around his ankles and handcuffed in front. He seemed a bit surprised at the number of people present, but quickly put on an arrogant mask and plopped himself down on the chair across from the DA.

"Mr. Suko, my name is Paul Sims, and I'm a District Attorney for Bay City. This gentleman to my left is Captain Dobey. The other man over there is Detective Simonetti, and I believe you already know Sergeant Hutchinson."

Suko barely acknowledged the introductions.

"It's my understanding, from Sergeant Hutchinson, that you have some information concerning the death of Detective Andrew Simmons and you're looking to make some kind of deal."

"Yeah, you got it, Sherlock," Suko said smugly.

"Well, considering your current charges of kidnapping and aggravated assault on a peace officer, I'll tell you right now, whatever it is you wish to offer had better be something extraordinary. Because if you're convicted of these crimes, I doubt if you'll get out of jail before you're ready for a cane or wheelchair."

"Are you done running your mouth, or are you just here wastin' my time?"

Sims bristled at the comment. "Alright, Mr. Suko. You're entitled to have an attorney present. Do you wish to exercise that right?"

"No."

"Then would you mind telling us what it is you have to offer?"

Suko leaned forward, visibly pissed.

"You think I'm just gonna spill my guts to you? Shit, does your momma know you're out playing with the big boys?" Before Sims could respond, Suko continued. "Okay, asshole, I'll give you a little sample. That detective, Simmons? One greedy son of a bitch. He caught me with some cash in my pocket, then used it as a bargaining chip so I'd go along with his plan."

Jumping in, Dobey asked, "What plan?"

"He wanted to fuck up Prince Charming—Starsky. Make him and Goldilocks over there look bad for not arresting some nutcase who was going around shooting at cops."

Suko's statement instantly got Hutch's attention, and he wasn't the only one.

"Are you talking about the shootings that have occurred recently?" Sims asked excitedly.

"_Had_ occurred. And yes, the ones that involved those bogus robbery calls." Gloating now, Suko added, "And that's all the freebies you're getting. Anything else is gonna cost ya."

"Alright, Suko. Just what are you proposing?"

"Hold on, counselor," Hutch said as he approached the table. "We're not even sure of all the crimes he's responsible for, and you're ready to let him start naming his own terms?"

"Sergeant, as far as I know, Suko's only been charged with Detective Starsky's kidnapping and assault…"

"Captain," Hutch butted in, "I think you and me and DA Sims need to step outside for a moment."

Dobey looked over at Sims and said, "C'mon, Paul, Simonetti can stay here. I'll get one of the guards to join him."

Hutch and the others walked a short distance down the hall until they were sure of some privacy.

"Just what were you trying to pull in there, Sergeant?" Sims demanded.

"I was about to ask you the same thing," Hutch fired back. "Right now we've got no way of proving who killed Simmons, Travis Woods or Officer Penthrum. If you let him think those warrant charges are the only ones he has to worry about, you're practically letting a murderer go free."

"So, regardless of whether Suko talks or not, we're damned if we do and damned if we don't…isn't that right, officer?" Sims asked, with heavy sarcasm.

"Alright, gentlemen," Dobey said, intervening. "Nothing's going to get accomplished by arguing out here. I say we go back and see if Suko will turn over anything more about his involvement with Simmons, and go from there. I, for one, don't want someone jerking my chain and I assume you feel the same, Paul."

Sims glanced at Hutch and then back to Dobey. "Fine. Let's see what this prick really knows."

Once the men returned to the room, Sims took the lead again.

"Okay, Mr. Suko. Sergeant Hutchinson has brought up a good point. We need to see more of a good faith effort on your part before I can offer you a deal. Now you mentioned Detective Simmons caught you holding some money. How much cash are we talking about?"

Suko shot the man a dirty look. "Enough that the fucker wouldn't need a pension anymore," he said. "I'd say it was around four hundred G."

A wave of silence rushed through the room. Even Hutch was surprised at the amount.

"Where's the money now?" Sims asked.

"Well, if I knew that, I wouldn't be sitting here talking to you chumps."

"This plan of Simmons, what part did you play?" Hutch asked, sensing Suko wasn't divulging what he really knew.

"Let's say, it was a major one."

"Oh, that's rich. Look, Suko—"

"Hutch…"

"No, Capt'n," Hutch said, keeping his attention on Suko. "Any dumb shit can sit there and make up a story that can only be corroborated by a dead man. You think we're really that stupid?"

Suko tensed up. "I'll tell you who wrote the notes _and_ what was in them, who was shooting at the cops, and…" he paused, glaring at Hutch, "the name of a person that will co-rob-bor-ate my shit. Now, that's all the good faith you piss-ants are gettin'. We got a deal, or don't we?"

.

The weather that dawned the following morning seemed destined to set the day's path. Hutch peeked out the window at the thick blanket of clouds overhead. The grey sky looked as though it was ready to release its watery burden at any moment. He fixed his regular breakfast drink, even throwing in some extra molasses and Vitamin E, but no special ingredient was going to replace the lost hours of sleep from the night before. Forgoing his morning run, he made it out the door and inside the LTD thirty minutes faster than normal. Before pulling out, he checked the time. Visiting hours at the jail were scheduled to begin in one hour.

Standing in the same room where he'd been less than fifteen hours ago, Hutch was shaken by the metal door opening. Starsky stepped inside, initially looking hesitant then relaxing once he recognized his partner. He was chained much as Suko had been, except Starsky's arms were handcuffed in back. Hutch's enthusiasm at seeing his friend diminished as he studied Starsky's demeanor. There was no sparkle in his eyes, and he seemed painfully withdrawn—a far cry from the ball of energy he once was.

When the guard left them alone, Hutch moved closer, but Starsky failed to react.

"How're you doin', Starsk?" Hutch asked carefully.

"Was beginnin' to think you'd forgotten about me," Starsky answered unemotionally, then quickly asked, "You find Suko?"

"Yeah…he's here, actually, in jail."

Taking the information in, Starsky gazed bleakly around the room then back at Hutch. "Is this where you yell 'surprise' and tell me I'm free to go?"

"Why don't you sit down?"

"I don't wanna sit down, Hutch. That's all I do every day is sit…sit and wonder if I'm ever gettin' out of this hell hole."

"Okay. We spoke to Suko yesterday…"

"We?"

"Dobey, myself, DA Sims…Simonetti." Hutch paused, then said, "He told us that Simmons was blackmailing him, and that Andy had written those notes that you got. He also admitted to being the shooter at the robbery calls."

Starsky suddenly tensed up. "He confessed to killing Officer Penthrum?"

Shaking his head, Hutch said, "No. He denied being at that one."

"He's lying," Starsky said softly. "He told me in the warehouse that he'd shot a cop. Everybody just believe him, or what?"

"Came down to proof. We can't prove he was there, Starsk—even you said you never got a look at the guy's face…"

"He still did it!" Starsky immediately shut up and looked over at the door, as if he expected a guard to come busting in. When no one entered, he turned back towards Hutch and said, "He tell you who killed Simmons?"

Hutch let out a loud sigh. There was no other way to do this. "The DA reduced the kidnapping and aggravated assault charges against him—down to just one count of felony assault. He's still gonna have to answer to shooting at those cops, but…"

"But what?"

"Suko wants you to drop the felony. In return, he'll say what happened at the warehouse and name the person who was in on this whole thing with Simmons."

Starsky stood silent for a moment, then moved over to a corner and leaned his head against it, letting his body sag. Hutch followed him, staying close but never quite bridging the gap.

"Starsk?"

Speaking just above a whisper, Starsky said, "Guess he'll get his chance to screw me yet…"

"What'd you say?" Hutch asked.

Starsky turned, and pressed his back against the wall. "So, he gets me to agree that everything he put me through, and Bree…that none of it mattered. And as a bonus, he then gets to accuse me of murdering Simmons. That's one hell of a deal, Hutch. Where do I sign up for mine?"

"I don't think that's what he's going to do, partner."

"No!? You willing to bet twenty to life on that, _partner_?"

Hutch could almost taste the fear coming from his friend, but what he was trying to tell Starsky wasn't some optimistic bullshit.

"Think about it. If he really wanted to screw you, he'd just go ahead and say it without all the fanfare. But he isn't. I think he wants help, Starsky. This silent partner of Andy's? Suko needs us to help nail him. I'm betting whatever proof he has, it isn't enough, and this is his way of making sure that turkey goes down."

"Hutch, you're sounding like you're the one who needs help. You honestly think he's gonna admit to killing Simmons? And in case you've forgotten, Suko wants me dead, not out there extracting revenge for him."

"Okay, it's a long shot, but consider this. Suko said Andy caught him with four hundred thousand dollars. Losing that much money would make anyone mad as hell. Now, Simmons is dead, but whoever was helping him isn't. And look at how Suko got himself out of being charged with murdering Penthrum."

Starsky gazed at Hutch for a long time, as if waiting for some giant epiphany to be revealed. The anguish spilling out of the brunet's eyes was hard to ignore.

"I can't take being in here, Hutch," he said in a broken voice, then turned away. "I don't know what to do…"

Not able to keep his distance anymore, Hutch reached out and gathered Starsky in his arms. He wished he could squeeze all the pain away to where there was nothing left but comfort.

"You can trust me, buddy. That's what you can do."

TBC


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

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Hutch stood and held onto Starsky for what seemed like an eternity. He hoped his body was acting like some kind of sponge, absorbing as much of the pain and tension out of his best friend as it could. He could feel Starsky's muscles gradually relaxing until, finally, Starsky pulled his head out from the space between them and rested it on Hutch's shoulder. The softness of Starsky's curls touching his cheek, along with his partner's absolute trust in him at that moment was all the gratification Hutch needed.

"How're you doin', buddy?" he asked.

They separated, but for Hutch it was hard to do. Since the shooting, any time he got to hug his partner was a cherished moment. These days, Starsky didn't allow much intimate contact, except on rare occasions and usually from a family member. There'd been many times in the hospital when Hutch had to settle for squeezing a hand or arm, when all he desperately wanted was to embrace that wounded, but living body, and thank God, fate or whoever for giving Starsky another day to survive. Those moments had been both precious and hard.

Sniffling a little, Starsky raised his head and looked at Hutch. What he saw in those eyes was more the desperate look of a boy than a man.

"So if I drop the charge, what happens next?" he asked.

"The DA wants to be there, along with Suko—" Hutch stopped as Starsky suddenly turned and jerked away from him. "Starsk, what's wrong?"

"I can't be in the same room with him. Not like this." Starsky tried to pull his arm around in front to demonstrate, but it was bound securely.

Hutch glanced at the handcuffed wrists, and felt his stomach twitch as something atrocious seemed to abruptly call out.

"Starsky… did he…"

For a second, Starsky's eyes opened wide, like a deer frozen in the beam of a car's headlights.

"No," he said unconvincingly, then added, "he didn't rape me…"

Hutch sensed there was more, but when nothing else was said, ventured, "You know—"

"It's just that, when he shot me…both times, I was…" Were it not for the way his voice broke, Starsky's reply would have sounded more like an afterthought.

"Hey, it's okay, you don't have to explain." Hutch didn't want to think about the possibility of Starsky shouldering another dark secret, but given the circumstances, the best thing he could do was to leave it buried. After giving them both a moment, Hutch continued. "If you drop the charge, then Suko wants to hear you say it—he's just getting his kicks, Starsky. One last laugh before he gets what he deserves." Hutch swallowed hard. If his partner only knew the truth behind Suko's real intentions, he might just decide to take his chances with a jury.

"Yeah, well let's get it over with. This jewelry isn't all that comfortable, ya know," Starsky said, glancing down at his shackled ankles.

"You gonna be okay then, with Suko there?"

"Terrific…"

.

Three hours later, Starsky was being led away from his cell for the second time that day. Although lunch had been served, he hadn't eaten. His stomach was far too queasy to handle anything, and that included edible food which hardly fit what the jail served. In response to growling from his usually favorite organ, Starsky laid a hand over it in a comforting gesture. For a change, his hands were cuffed in front this time. No doubt from some kind of pull that Hutch must've been able to swing.

When his escort stopped momentarily outside of the visiting room door, Starsky took a few deep breaths. It was never an easy thing to have your future held hostage.

Going into the room, he immediately searched for the only person he wanted to see. Finding Hutch at the desk, he latched onto that source of strength. Although he hoped he wasn't showing it, Starsky was scared to death.

"Have a seat, Sergeant," the man seated next to Hutch said, nodding towards an empty chair in front of the desk. Recently promoted, Paul Sims looked no more intelligent than he had when he was just an assistant DA. Out of the corner of his eye, Starsky could see Suko sitting nearby. He wanted to go stand right in front of the pervert, and not only give him a look that would burn through metal, but castrate him as well. Unfortunately, he was all out of courage at the moment. Gathering what willpower he could, Starsky slipped down into the chair, and focused his attention on Hutch.

Sims picked up a sheet from one of the piles on the desk. "Now, I want to make sure that you still understand your rights," he told Starsky, "including that of having an attorney present and the right to remain silent."

"I ain't forgotten 'em."

"And before I begin, is there anything from your previous statement that you wish to either amend or add to?"

"Nothing."

"Alright. As you know, my office has decided to reduce the original charges of kidnapping and felony aggravated assault on Frank Suko in return for his testimony in the case of Andrew Simmons' murder."

"Yeah, so I heard," Starsky replied with an air of disgust.

Sims hesitated for a moment, apparently picking up the inference. "There's still the reduced charge of felony assault left. Now, Mr. Suko has indicated he'll give his account of how Detective Simmons was killed, plus name someone who knew Simmons was blackmailing him. In return, he wants you to be willing to drop the charge."

Starsky looked at Hutch. He still wasn't convinced he'd be doing the right thing, but with the position he was in, he had no choice.

"Drop it," Starsky said in a low tone.

"Very well." Sims then turned to Suko. "Alright, Suko. All previous charges against you are dismissed, but this offer is contingent upon your willingness to testify here and again in court. Is that understood?"

"Boy, I can understand English."

"Then let's hear your version."

The mobster settled back in his seat. Although Starsky still couldn't lock eyes with the scum, he had seen the smirk on Suko's face in response to his reply to Sims. Starsky briefly wondered if he'd ever have an appetite again. Right now, he felt sick enough to voluntarily admit himself into the hospital.

"That night, I got a call from Simmons. He told me to be at the warehouse before five-thirty, and to expect a guest." Suko nodded at Starsky. "That was part of the deal. Me gettin' to settle some business with _him_."

"What do you mean by 'settle'?" Sims asked.

Suko just smiled and said, "That we were gonna have a little fun, talkin' about old times."

For the first time, Starsky looked directly at Suko. The way he'd strung out the word 'old' seemed to hint at something that had happened before Rothman. Way before.

"Just for clarification, how much 'fun' are we talking about? Enough to put him in the hospital like the last time you two crossed paths?"

Starsky glared at Hutch, wishing he'd leave the questioning to Sims. All he could do was hope Suko wouldn't answer it honestly.

"I mean nothin' he couldn't get over in a day or two."

"Go on, Mr. Suko. What happened next?" Thankfully, Sims seemed uninterested in this part of the story.

"Well, about an hour later, Ace Detective here showed up. Just to make sure things didn't get crazy, I had him give up his hardware. We talked for a bit, then Simmons showed up."

"Were you expecting him?" asked the DA, leaning forward and suddenly alert.

"Hell, no! Next thing I know, he's pointin' a gun and making me give up my piece. He starts talking about double crossing me, but mostly he's raggin' on the cop. Anyway, don't take a genius to figure out he's gonna clip us both."

"Then what happened?"

"He said he killed Curly Top's partner. That's when the pig jumped him."

"What did the Sergeant do, specifically?"

Starsky met and matched Hutch's searching gaze, wondering if the blond could read his mind. _I hope this isn't a big surprise to ya, buddy…I knew he was gonna screw me._

"Well, he latched onto him like white on rice, but I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing; that bastard was gonna kill someone."

Starsky did an involuntary double take. Did he just hear Suko right?

"So, Starsky attacked Simmons, but you're saying it was self defense?"

Obviously, the DA must have heard the same thing.

"Gee, Sherlock, what would you call it?" blurted Suko.

"Okay, go on."

"Well, them two wrestled around, then Simmons knocked Junior good on the back of the head with his gun. Dropped the kid like a bag of rocks."

"And what did you do?"

"I saw him starting to aim the gun at me. What the asshole didn't remember was I still had the cop's gun. Two shots and that fucker was dead."

Starsky felt like he would be dragged in front of the firing squad at any moment; if Suko was trying to cover for him, he'd just blown it big time. Either that, or Simmons had become the first person to knock one man out, then try to shoot a second, all while dying from strangulation.

"Interesting story—and that's exactly how you remember it?"

"Just a moment," Hutch interrupted. Addressing Suko, he said, "How did Detective Starsky attack Simmons?"

Suko shrugged his shoulders. "He grabbed him by the throat."

"And after Simmons knocked Starsky out, how did he look?"

"He looked as ugly as he always did," Suko answered, sounding confused.

Hutch persisted, asking, "I mean…how strong did he seem to be?"

Suko wrinkled his face. "Strong enough to pull the trigger on the gun he was holdin', but he was kinda gasping and holding his throat. I guess I was more concerned about bullets flyin' at me than how much the fucker could bench press."

At that moment, Starsky could've jumped up and kissed Hutch full on the mouth. He'd gotten Suko to admit he was the shooter and that Simmons was still alive after Starsky attacked him.

"Alright, so after you shot Simmons, what did you do?" Sims asked.

"Wasn't any need for me to stick around. I dropped the gun and took off. End of story."

Sims jotted down some notes then gazed at Suko with a penetrating look. "There's one more thing—who else knew about your deal with Simmons?"

"Like that old saying goes," Suko said, gloating, "'it takes one to know one.'"

.

"What do you feel like doing?"

"Huh?"

"What do you feel like doing before we meet with Dobey? We got an hour. You hungry?"

Starsky kept his attention focused on the scenery outside the window. "I wanna go to the beach."

"The beach? Are you sure?"

Hutch slowed down to stop at a traffic light. Normally, he'd be begging Starsky to shut up, but the man had barely spoken a word since leaving the jail. Not that he didn't have a good reason.

After Suko had named Michael Babcock as Simmons' accomplice, he'd been put in solitary so he couldn't contact anyone on the outside. Sims agreed to release Starsky on his own recognizance, but kept the charge in place until he could talk to the head district attorney the following morning. Obviously, there were some hard questions pending for the coroner. Lastly, Dobey had been called and they'd agreed to meet later to work out a strategy for going after their newest suspect.

Hutch sensed the real reason for his friend's silence, other than the murder charge still hanging over him, was learning who else had been involved with Simmons. For Starsky, the blow had been hard.

Hutch steered the LTD into the lot and found a parking space. It was getting close to sunset and most of the beach-goers had already left. Starsky got out and slowly walked towards the ocean. Hutch couldn't help noticing that his partner's usually form-fitting pants weren't as tight on him as before. And the spring in his step was gone.

Finding a spot about ten feet from the water, Starsky kicked off his shoes and sat down. He pulled both legs up, wrapped his arms around them and settled his head on top. For several minutes, Hutch stood nearby as his partner stared out towards the horizon, clearly off in another world.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Hutch asked, as he decided to sit down. The sky had cleared during the day and now only a few scattered clouds remained—just enough to add more color to the already amazing palette being formed by the setting sun.

"It must feel pretty good, being out of prison." He glanced over at Starsky, but there was no response. "You know, Starsk, maybe we shouldn't jump to any conclusions until we get a chance to talk to him," Hutch prodded. "Suko did say he just saw him that one time."

"Suko lied."

Hutch stopped looking at the sunset and turned to Starsky. "What?"

"He lied—about how Simmons died."

Squinting his eyes, Hutch gazed back at the ocean. He wasn't sure if he wanted to ask or hear anything else. But this was something coming out of an unusually quiet Starsky.

"I thought you said you were out for the count when that happened, buddy."

Starsky raised his head, still staring out to sea. "For the last part, not the first, but there was no way Simmons could've knocked me out."

"How can you be—"

"Hutch, I had him in a death grip. The last thing I do remember is his eyes rolling back…"

"Starsk, he was planning to kill you. And he shot Trevor. Does it really make a difference if you killed him instead of Suko?"

After a pause, Starsky said, "Trevor told me, just before he died, that revenge isn't all it's cracked up to be. I think I believe him now."

"Is that how you feel? You don't see what happened as the result of self defense?"

"Fuck self defense anymore! That's just a convenient excuse to give a jury. I could've knocked him out, I could've…done something different."

"Yeah? And what about Suko? What do you think he was going to do?"

"I dunno. He could've killed me, but he didn't."

"Right, but just so you'd be the only one who could be blamed for Simmons' murder, which is exactly what happened. Look, I know being put in a situation where you're forced to kill is hard. And this being a brother cop...well, there's nothing harder." Hutch briefly reflected on his own experience with shooting Phil Corman. "But based on what Suko told the DA, there should be some doubt as to what really killed Simmons."

"You mean _who_ really killed him…"

Hutch let out a sigh. "Starsky, even if you did, you had all the right in the world. And you certainly don't deserve to go to prison for the rest of your life because of it. Now, are you sure you're not hungry? You look like you've lost some weight."

Starsky watched as the last curve of the sun slipped beneath the Pacific Ocean. "I always kind of took it for granted, you know?" He glanced over at Hutch. "The sunlight."

Hutch reached over and took hold of Starsky's shoulder. "C'mon, let's go grab something. We'll find a drive-thru, okay?"

.

Dobey had just finished watching the last bit of liquid drip out of the coffee maker when he heard the knock at his door. After he invited Starsky and Hutch inside, all three headed to the kitchen.

"Where is everybody?" Hutch asked.

"Edith and Cal are over at her aunt's," Dobey said, setting some coffee cups on the table. "Poor woman's been down with the flu for the last three days. Edith took Cal to help her with some house cleaning."

Smiling, Hutch said, "I bet he's going to enjoy that."

Dobey chuckled. "Yeah, I don't think I'm going to hear him complaining about taking the trash out anymore. Rosie's in bed upstairs. Her school had their Christmas pageant tonight. She was asleep before we even made it home."

Dobey grabbed the glass pot from the coffee maker and went over to the table. He poured both men a cup and then his own. Finally sitting down, he said, "I guess I'm still having a hard time believing all this. You mentioned Babcock the other day, but still, he'd be one of the last people I would have suspected."

"Yeah, well, it's Suko's word against his. We need more than that to prove anything," Hutch remarked, then took a sip from his cup.

"Any ideas on what our game plan should be?" Dobey asked, keeping his eyes on Starsky.

"I think whatever we decide, it needs to be quick. Right now, both Suko and Starsky are possible targets."

Almost choking on the coffee in his mouth, Dobey said angrily, "What are you saying, Hutch? That Babcock's gonna try and kill one of them?"

"Captain, there's a lot of money floating around out there, certainly enough to want to kill for. I'm not ready to sit back and think that nobody else could be involved here. What's that old saying? 'Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.' Well, I'm definitely feeling very humiliated and I'll be damned if someone's gonna get another chance to make fools of us."

Hutch fell silent as he followed the direction of Dobey's gaze to Starsky, who'd been quietly stirring his coffee since sitting down. When he noticed them staring at him, he dropped his arms from the table and got up.

"Excuse me, I need some fresh air." And with that, he made a hasty exit out the front door.

Sadly, Dobey asked, "How long has he been like that?"

"Since we left the jail. He can't seem to take being inside anywhere for too long, even the car."

"Hutch, I'll be honest. I don't think he's in any shape to work this case."

"Capt'n, this is his future you're talking about. He's gotta be involved in it. You honestly expect him to just sit on his ass and not do a thing?"

"No, but I'm not going to put him out the street and keep my fingers crossed that he's not going to get himself killed, or someone else."

"He's got me. He'll be fine."

"Look, I made a mistake before, letting him go when he wasn't ready. I'm not doing that again."

"You take him off this case, you might as well be signing off on his retirement."

"Let me tell you something, Hutchinson. Starsky's still on suspension, with a criminal charge pending, no less. Not only that, but I'd bet my pension he's still got some significant medical issues. Now, how could I justify letting him go back on the street, not only to myself, but to the chief and the commissioner as well?"

"Captain, I don't think you have to," Hutch said excitedly. "You just came up with a plan we can use to snag Babcock."

As Hutch jumped up from his seat and headed towards the front door, Dobey yelled, "What are you talking about? What plan?"

TBC


	25. Chapter 25

Hi Everyone! Thanks again for your continued interest in the story. I'll be posting the last two chapters on Monday.

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Chapter 25

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Hutch came out of the house and spotted Starsky down by the driveway. He was sitting much like he'd been on the beach, this time with his face buried in his arms. Hutch strolled over, making sure he could be heard. As he reached the end of the walkway, he stopped for a moment as Starsky's head rose.

"Hey, your coffee's getting cold," Hutch offered.

"Yeah, I suppose it is. So what'd Dobey have to say?"

"About what?"

"Me."

Hutch glanced around the area, then sat down beside his partner. "He's just concerned about how you're doing."

"Seems like there's a lot of that going around. The only people _not_ concerned about me are the ones trying to kill me. I wish I could just go back to being ignored."

"Well, I've never tried to kill you, at least not intentionally," Hutch said lightly.

"No, you just make fun of my car and try to get me to eat dead plants and seaweed all the time."

Hutch smiled, feeling grateful that at least part of the Starsky he knew and loved was still there.

"C'mon, let's go back inside," Hutch said as he grasped Starsky's shoulder. "I think I've got a plan that'll snag Babcock like a rat in a trap."

"Humph," Starsky huffed. "Why do I get the feeling it'll involve using me as bait?"

"Because you're always so good at pretending to be a cheese."

.

It was just after eleven-thirty when Hutch pulled into the driveway at Starsky's house. The Torino sat in its regular spot, still bright under a slight coating of tan dust. Hutch left the engine running as Starsky got out and closed the door behind him.

Sticking his head in the window, Starsky said, "You sure you're not gonna sit out here all night making sure I don't split town?"

"I'm sure. Besides, I've got a little piece of insurance that guarantees it."

Starsky wrinkled his face. "What's that?"

Hutch glanced in the rear view mirror then put the gear selector into reverse. "Oh, just that little spark plug wire that comes out of the center of your distributor cap."

As he starting pulling back out of the driveway, Starsky yelled, "Hutch! You're kidding, right?"

The only response was a wave of Hutch's hand and then the LTD took off down the street. Starsky stood for a moment, not sure whether he wanted to check under his hood or not. Shaking it off as a joke, he headed up the front steps.

Stepping inside the door, Starsky let familiar scents of home seep into his senses. It felt good to be back in his own place, surrounded by things that reminded him of who he was as a human being. Pictures, furniture, books, various knick knacks and…carpeting. All so different from the sterile, concrete cage that he'd been living in. As he headed to the kitchen to see if there was any beer left, the phone rang. Starsky glanced at the clock. It couldn't be Hutch; he wouldn't have made it home yet. But maybe something had come up.

"Yeah," he answered, almost tempted to add 'did your car break down again?'

"Davey?"

It was Bree. "Are you okay?" he asked, glancing at the clock again. This was late even for her.

"I'm fine. I've been trying to call you all night."

"Hutch just dropped me off a few minutes ago. How'd you know I was gonna be home?" Starsky cringed. Asking her a question like that was like expecting Julia Child to describe the art of cooking.

"How do you think?" she asked. "Hutch told me." _Of course—Bree's other crystal ball. _"So, how does it feel to be home?"

"It feels normal." _Oh shit, I almost forgot! _"Hey, I wanted to tell you 'thank you,' you know, for going all the way over there. Did your boy play nice?"

"Yes, Renzo was a complete gentleman—"

Starsky softly groaned and rolled his eyes.

"He put Ken and me up in a suite, actually. Paid for everything."

"Swell," he muttered. "So, how'd Renzo get Suko to give himself up so easily? I'm surprised he didn't put up a bigger fight."

"What'd Hutch say?"

"He said the boss found out Suko had skipped with some cash from that drug deal, but I can't believe that was the only reason."

"Oh, well, I guess stranger things have happened."

"Bree…I know that tone. What aren't you telling me?" Starsky picked the phone up and carried it over to the couch. Somehow he felt he needed to sit down.

"Davey, there's nothing else. Look, it's late. I just didn't want to wait until morning to call—"

"Breanna, either you come clean, or I'm gonna be on your doorstep before you can count to ten."

There was a long silence on the other end. Finally, she said, "While we were there, Renzo told me something I didn't know about Suko."

"Go on—"

"Well, remember when Pop was shot by that _capo_ who wanted to take Joe Durniak out?"

"Yeah, Bree, I remember," he said tersely.

"It turns out, he was related to Suko. It was his father, Davey. Giovanni Suko."

"…oh, shit…" Starsky gripped the receiver tightly and closing his eyes, pressed it against his forehead.

"Davey? Davey!?"

"I'm still here…" he said, still trying to mentally digest what Bree had just said.

"I know how you must feel," she said, "I guess I never thought to ask either, you know? It was just a done deal. I mean, Durniak made sure—"

"Bree, don't say anything else." Starsky took a moment, then said, "Hey, I'm gonna let you go, okay? Thanks for callin' and I'll…I'll try and give you a call tomorrow."

"Are you going to be alright? Davey, I'm sorry, I just thought Ken would've mentioned it. Don't be mad, okay?"

"I'm not mad. Did you talk to Mom when you were there?"

"No, I wanted to, but I wasn't sure if you'd called her or not."

"I haven't. Good night, sis…"

Starsky hung up the phone. It made sense, now, what Suko had meant by 'old times'… and everything that happened while he was a guest of Rothman's. He got up and went over to the kitchen, maybe in search of a beer, maybe not. Doing a little bit of calculation in his head, Starsky figured Suko would have been in his late teens or early twenties when his father was killed. _He still had more time with his dad than I did._

He opened the fridge, grateful to find a single beer nestled in the door. Popping the top, he took a couple of swigs then caught himself wanting to throw it against a wall. For a moment he let the massive buildup of anger rise, not sure whether to release it or not. Up until now, he'd never realized how close to the surface it had always been—just sitting there, waiting for a trigger. He'd always admired his Pop, never had any reason not to remember him as a hero. But that was only through the eyes of a thirteen year old boy. A boy who was so naïve he believed that mobsters always ran around in dark coats and hats with submachine guns tucked under their arms. Not the friendly men who came over for Sunday dinner and sat out on the front steps drinking beer with his Dad and uncles.

Starsky went over to the patio window and looked out across the neighborhood. Trying to make sense of his life just wasn't an option anymore. There were too many things he'd never have the answers to, and even if he did…would it really change anything? Maybe Rachel knew some things, maybe she didn't. The real answer lay inaccessible and locked up in the past, the only way of accessing it would be for a thirty-three year old son to go back and ask his thirty-six year old father to explain how it had all gone so wrong.

Releasing a loud sigh, he looked over at his bedroom, eying the part of the bed that was visible through the doorway. He took one last gulp of beer, then set the half-empty can in the sink. He shut off the light and headed for what he'd hope would be some peaceful sleep on the one solid comfort he could only dream about for the last week.

.

The following morning arrived without fanfare. Babcock entered the squad room, and like his coworkers often did, headed straight for the coffee machine. As he had done each morning for the past few days, he took notice of the general atmosphere in the room. Today seemed no different. Pouring himself a cup, he glanced over towards a certain corner desk. He was surprised to see Hutch sitting there, especially since he'd been gone for several days. Babcock waited until the blond got off the phone, then took his cup and walked over.

"Hey, Hutch, I see you're back."

Hutch looked up from the file folder he'd just opened. "Yeah, got back a couple of days ago," he replied.

"Really?" Babcock sat down across the desk from Hutch. Lowering his voice, he said, "I heard that, ah…you took a trip East. Did you find who you were looking for?"

Hutch glanced around the room before answering. "Actually, I did," he said, "But I don't know if it's going to help Starsky out."

"How's that? I mean, you found Suko, right?" Hutch responded with a nod. "And isn't that who Starsky said was with him in the warehouse?"

A phone started to ring, but Babcock ignored it.

"Isn't that your phone?" Hutch asked.

"Yeah, I guess it is." Babcock got up and went over to his desk. He glanced back at Hutch, then grabbed the phone. "Detective Babcock," he answered.

"_Babcock_?"

He thought he recognized the voice, but why would he be calling? "Starsky?"

"_You and me, we've gotta talk_."

Babcock looked at Hutch, whose head was down, apparently engrossed in paperwork. "I don't think we've got anything to discuss," he said, cupping the phone closer.

"_Oh, I can think of about four hundred thousand things, you fucker_."

"What are you talking about?" Babcock nervously replied, keeping his voice down and his eyes on Hutch.

"_You think you and your scumbag partner were the only ones Suko would make a deal with_?"

Babcock was about to answer, but a thought suddenly arose. "I didn't think they let prisoners make phone calls."

"_That's because I'm not in jail, asshole. I hope that got your attention, 'cause I'm only gonna say this once_—"

"What kind of sucker do you think I am?" Babcock quietly hissed. "Is this some sick joke? Some last minute attempt of yours to frame me?"

"_If that's what you're willing to bet your future on, be my guest. But right now, Suko's in my pocket, and he's got no problems with switching business partners…or his story_."

A sickening wave rushed through Babcock. Until he had a chance to consider his options, he'd have to go along. "Fine. Talk to me, then."

"_Not over the phone. There's a vacant lot, behind the Wilson Building, corner of Alameda and Spring. If you're not there in fifteen minutes, you better start huntin' for a good attorney_."

Babcock looked over at Dobey's door. Maybe two could play this game. "Yeah, I'll be there."

"_Oh, and Babcock? Hutch will be following you over here. Make sure he doesn't lose sight of that ugly mug of yours, if you catch my drift_."

After Starsky hung up, Babcock noticed that the blond half of the duo was staring at him. He quickly grabbed his jacket and headed out of the squad room.

.

Babcock slid into his Chevy Nova and started the engine. He wished he could call someone, anyone, and tell them where he was going, just so someone would know this wasn't his idea. A dozen scenarios rushed through his head, all bad, but there was no way of knowing which was going down. He knew Starsky was capable of anything, even when he wasn't forced up against a wall. One thing was certain, though. He was obviously out of jail, and most likely, legally. That alone was enough to make Babcock wonder if he shouldn't just try to cut his losses and save himself the best way he could.

As he pulled out of the lot, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw Hutch's LTD. His stomach tightened as he contemplated the possibility that these two might be desperate enough to kill him. Starsky had mentioned the magic number, and Babcock knew people were capable of doing far more insane things for less money than that. He'd just have to be careful. As long as they figured he was valuable, he would stay alive.

Making the last turn, Babcock pulled in and parked behind one of the abandoned buildings. The area had once been an employee parking lot, but now the only things occupying it were two steel trash dumpsters and a discarded mattress draped along the edge of a loading dock. Babcock got out of his car and turned towards the LTD now parked alongside. Hutch exited the sedan and came around the rear. He motioned for Babcock to head towards the dumpsters in front of the loading dock.

As they approached, Starsky came around the corner of the building. He appeared calm, his hands stuffed casually into his jacket pockets. Babcock stopped and stared at him, but remained quiet, choosing to let the brunet make the first move.

"Just so things remain on an equal basis," Starsky began, "give Hutch your gun."

Babcock swung his gaze to Hutch, then back. "Are you joking? What's next? Bend over so you can shoot me in the ass?"

"I wouldn't be giving me any ideas," Starsky replied. He opened his jacket and pulled both halves back. "I ain't carrying, and since this is between you and me, I'd feel better knowing you didn't have an advantage."

"You're full of shit, Starsky. What's to keep Hutch from shooting me?"

"Babcock, trust me. If I wanted to send you over into the next life, I'd do it without any help."

"How about showing me you ain't got a wire?"

"What I'm gonna say to you, you'll only wish I was wired. Now, get rid of the piece or I will come over there and hurt you."

Babcock stared at the brunet. He'd never known Starsky to bluff, and the intense gaze coming from the man didn't take away from that belief. He reached into his jacket and slowly pulled out his revolver. Holding it with his fingertips, he handed it to Hutch.

"Okay, boss, now what?" Babcock demanded.

"Now you're gonna tell us where the money is," Starsky said, as he sat down on the loading dock.

"Just like that? I hand over almost half a million dollars?" Babcock snorted. "Over my dead body."

"Careful, you might get what you wish for."

"And what's going to happen if I do? You gonna turn it all over to Dobey?"

"Wasn't exactly what we had planned."

Babcock cocked his head, dumbfounded. "What'dya mean, 'wasn't exactly?"

Starsky looked over at Hutch. "Think we ought to tell 'im?"

"It's up to you," Hutch replied, shifting on his feet.

Starsky didn't say anything for a long moment.

"Well?" Babcock at last demanded.

"I don't think I trust him," Starsky said, glancing at Hutch, "He's too much like his partner."

"Well, buddy, there's only one problem with that," Hutch remarked.

"What?"

"He's still got the money."

"You fuckers, this is just a setup," spewed Babcock. "Here's some news for you. I don't have any money, other than two thousand dollars in my savings account. So, give me my gun, have a nice day, and enjoy your time in prison, Starsky."

"You can split if you want to, Babcock…but you'll be taking a chance that I've got you cold. Besides, what fun is having all that money when you're sitting all alone in solitary?"

Babcock looked around the parking lot, not sure what he was hoping for. His inner voice was telling him don't buy it, but another voice was insisting he cut his losses.

"Aren't you the least bit curious why I'm out of jail?" Starsky asked.

"Alright," Babcock sighed. "Let's hear it."

"Well, my partner here, found your cohort over in Jersey. Seems he wasn't too happy about you keepin' all his money. So after a little persuading, Suko's agreed to be on our team, which leaves you hangin' out to dry."

"Is that right? So if I'm screwed, then why are we here?"

"Because we thought you might want to come over to our side. Must be getting pretty lonely over there by yourself."

"So what's in it for me if I join?"

Starsky smiled at Hutch. "I thought he'd never ask. We figure you deserve a percentage…fifty thousand dollars."

"Fifty…" Babcock huffed. "Oh, that's real fuckin' generous. And you get the rest I suppose?"

"Not quite. Don't you know there's always the cost of doin' business? Suko gets a hundred thousand, Hutch and me get whatever's left."

"Yeah? That's rich. And just how do you plan on spending that money sitting in jail?"

Starsky jumped off of the loading dock. "Does this look like an orange Popsicle jumper to you?" he fired back, pulling at the sides of his jacket.

"I can see you're fuckin' out of jail, Starsky. But you still killed Andy, even though I suppose you're gonna claim you were so doped up at the time that it…"

Babcock didn't get a chance to finish. Starsky latched onto him and swung him hard into the side of the dumpster. Hutch moved forward, but did nothing to interfere.

"You…have no idea of what I've gone through or what I have to do to feel even part way normal! And thanks to you and Simmons, my medical issues are front page news now." Starsky tightened his grip. "So you want to know how I'm spending that money? Flat on my back, while some surgeon cuts me up again. And whatever's left is going to enjoy living someplace nice and warm south of the border."

"You're skipping the country?" Babcock asked, then looked at Hutch. "And you too?"

"I can't leave him on his own. He gets into too much trouble that way," he said, with a slight grin.

"So what am I supposed to do?"

Starsky eased his hold, then said, "You really need that explained to you?"

Babcock brushed Starsky's hands off. "Since you seem to have this all planned out, what's Suko's role?"

"He does some time, then gets out before he needs a walker and lives happily ever after," Starsky said cheerfully.

Babcock didn't like his tone. "So that's what the cop killer gets. And what about you, Starsky? Your hands are just as bloody. How are _you_ getting out of this?" he asked sharply.

Suddenly, Starsky reared his arm back and landed a sucker punch, dropping Babcock to the ground.

"I wouldn't be in this shit if it weren't for you!"

As he looked up at his attacker, Babcock was shocked to see Starsky rip open his shirt and grab hold of a wire and transmitter taped to his chest. With one swift pull, he tore the gear off and threw it on the ground. He then grabbed the gun out of Hutch's hand.

"Starsky! What the hell are you doing?" Hutch screamed as his partner pointed the gun at Babcock.

"Three people are dead because of you, and only one deserved it!" Starsky growled through clinched teeth. "Now, you've got two minutes before backup gets here to tell me why you did this…or I will blow your fuckin' head off!"

Holding both hands up, Babcock stared at Hutch, hoping for some sign that he wasn't going to go along with his psycho partner. But Hutch's focus was entirely on his partner.

"Talk!" Starsky hollered.

"Okay, okay! It wasn't my idea! Andy lost a bundle after investing in one of those sure-fire, double-your-money schemes. He was about to sell his house when we stumbled on Suko trying to skip town. In exchange for getting half of the money, Suko agreed to shoot at some cops."

"What!?" snapped Hutch.

"It's true! It was all planned to make you and Starsky look bad. Andy was…he hated the way you two always got the atta-boys and the good cases." Babcock felt his breath hitch in his throat. "But no one was supposed to get hurt…or killed."

Starsky knelt down and grabbed hold of Babcock's shirt with his free hand. "But two cops got wasted!"

"When you went over to the Fifth," Babcock began shakily, "we had Suko follow you. The officer that got killed—Suko claimed it was an accident. That's when Andy said we needed to take him out. But I drew the line when he planned on letting Suko kill you."

"You're a real saint, Babcock. So why did you tip Simmons off about the APB on Starsky?" Hutch asked hotly.

Babcock bowed his head. "Because Andy wasn't planning on going to the warehouse anytime soon. He knew Suko was gonna…take his time with Starsky. I tried to get him to change the plan, but he wouldn't listen."

"Did Simmons kill Trevor?" Starsky hissed.

"I don't know…maybe he did, but I never asked him."

"You make me sick," Starsky muttered, as he shoved off him and stood up. He pulled the trigger back on the revolver and pointed it at Babcock's head.

"Hey, look! We never planned on any cops getting killed—only Suko!"

"_David_…"

The voice broke Starsky's concentration for a moment. He thought Hutch might have called him, but Hutch would never use his first name—

"_David, don't. This will only hurt you_."

That did it. Certain it wasn't Hutch's voice, Starsky took a quick glance around, but no one else was there. As the sound of distant sirens started to draw closer, Starsky shook off the occurrence as his imagination, and tossed the gun on the ground. Bending down, he grabbed Babcock by his jacket and pulled him to his knees.

"Where's the money?" he demanded.

Babcock closed his eyes and let go a sigh of relief. "I don't have it," he wheezed.

"What!?" Starsky shouted.

"I don't have it!"

TBC


	26. Chapter 26

**Author's Note: **Hi Everyone. I know you're anxious to see the conclusion of this story, but I'd like to take a moment and graciously thank you for reading this story. If there was anything that you liked, disliked, or felt wasn't addressed I'd love to hear from you. (Actually, it's Suko who wants to know because he thinks he did a better job in this story than Trevor...where's Bree when I need her?) For those who are interested, the third and final story of this trilogy, _The Road Not Taken_, is in production.

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Chapter 26

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"Hey, Hutch?"

"Yeah?"

"Promise me something."

"What?"

"When we're done here, you'll take me straight to Huggy's."

"And what, leave you there?"

"Yeah, no, I mean both of us going and staying to close down the bar. Sound good?"

"Starsky, I don't think that'd be a good idea."

"Why not?"

Hutch glanced over at his partner slouched down in the passenger seat. "If you want to get drunk, maybe you should come over to my place tonight," he said.

"I don't think your place hardly compares with Huggy's," Starsky grumbled as he turned his face away to stare out of the window.

"That might be true, but you know what the DA said."

"Oh, thanks for bringing _that _up, partner." With his elbow on the door's arm rest, Starsky propped his chin on his hand. "You my probation officer now, too?"

Hutch let the unintentional jab go, and concentrated on watching the house across the street. "She should be home pretty soon," he said.

Starsky groaned. "Yeah, I can hardly wait."

"You're not thinking about confronting her, are you?" asked Hutch. "This is one time I'm glad Dobey's offered to take the lead."

"No, he can handle it."

"You know, whether we find the money today or not, at least this whole thing is almost over."

"Is that what you think?"

"Yeah, that's what I think."

"Next thing you're gonna say is 'and they all lived happily ever after'."

Hutch let out a sigh. Maybe Starsky was right; this nightmare was far from being over for him. Even with Babcock's statement, the DA still wasn't ready to drop the murder charge. On top of that, the coroner's office was calling in a specialist from San Francisco to go over Simmons' autopsy report. No one from the local office could come to a definite conclusion on what had actually caused his death. And even if those things could be decided in Starsky's favor, Hutch knew his partner still had some medical issues that weren't going to be resolved in a hurry.

"Hutch?"

"Uh-huh?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

"That's okay. I think you're entitled." Hutch reached over and laid a hand on Starsky's thigh. "I'm here for you—that's one thing you can depend on."

Before Starsky could say anything else, a green Oldsmobile pulled into the driveway at Simmons' house.

"Looks like she's home," Hutch said as he reached for the radio mike. "Zebra Three to Captain Dobey on Tac Two."

"_Dobey here_."

"Captain, the little woman just got home."

"_Copy, Hutch, we're on our way_."

Hutch placed the mike back in its receiver. "You ready?" he asked Starsky.

"As ready as I'm gonna get."

Within a few minutes, Dobey arrived with a squad car in tow. Starsky and Hutch got out of the LTD and, after assembling with the others in the driveway, went up to the house. Letting out a deep breath, Dobey took the search warrant from his jacket and knocked on the front door.

Rebecca Simmons appeared in the doorway, not looking very surprised to see five officers standing on her front porch.

"Rebecca Simmons," Dobey began, giving her the paper in his hand, "We have a warrant to search your house. Is anyone else inside?"

"No, there's no one else here," she said flatly, glancing at the warrant.

"Where's your daughter?" Dobey asked.

"She's at school." Rebecca replied. "Am I being arrested, Captain?"

"I think you know what we're looking for. Why not make this easier on everyone and tell us where it is?"

She looked past Dobey and focused on Starsky.

"So, he gets special treatment, huh? He kills Andy, and gets to walk around free as a bird. But my husband takes some money off a mobster, and he's the one who ends up paying with his life!" Rebecca screamed, trying to push past Dobey.

"Mrs. Simmons, that's enough!" Dobey said as he grabbed a hold of her. One of the uniform officers pulled out a set of handcuffs and soon had the woman under control. "Go ahead and put her in your patrol car," Dobey advised him, "and take your partner with you. We'll go on and start searching inside. And call for another unit to respond over here…it's a big house."

"Yes, sir," the officer replied.

Starsky stood off to the side as Simmons' wife was led down the walkway, then followed Hutch and Dobey into the house. For all her bravado, the woman hadn't much imagination when it came to hiding things. Within a few short minutes, Hutch had located a suitcase underneath the couple's bed. Inside were dozens and dozens of taped stacks of hundred dollar bills. A quick estimate of the money came very close to the amount they were looking for.

Dobey had Rebecca taken to the station and charged with obstruction of justice. Starsky was glad that another detective team was assigned the task of interviewing her. As far as he was concerned, he'd had enough dealings with anyone named Simmons to last a lifetime.

Before they left the scene, Dobey found Starsky and walked him over to his car.

"I've been talking to IA since yesterday," Dobey began. "Simonetti's actually recommended that you be reinstated…"

Starsky studied the man's face; Dobey looked anything but relieved.

"But I've got to tell you, Dave, I don't think you're ready to work the streets. I want you back, but not until you're completely healed and well."

"That a nice way of telling me I need to see a shrink?" Starsky said half-seriously.

Frowning, Dobey replied, "You know what I mean." He glanced over Starsky's shoulder, and Starsky followed his gaze, spotting Hutch standing over by the walkway. He must have realized they were having a private conversation because he turned and strolled off in another direction.

"There's, ah, something else I needed to mention," Dobey continued. "You're out of sick leave and vacation time. I tried to see if workman's comp would still cover you, but when you got cleared to come back to work, they stopped paying on your claim. I've spoken to the Chief, but the budget is really tight. There is a desk job available, but I didn't know how you'd feel about accepting it."

Starsky glanced down at the ground and shuffled his feet a little. The news about his sick time wasn't a surprise. In fact, he knew he'd run out shortly before coming back to work. Dobey must have allocated money from somewhere to pay him, probably hoping it would be just a one-time need.

"'S'okay, Capt'n. I had a feelin' this was coming—"

"Starsky, I don't have to give you my opinion on what I think this department owes you, and if it were up to me, this wouldn't be an issue. But I've got a whole division to run, and too small of a budget to do it with."

"You don't gotta explain. I've been thinking about maybe going back East for a little while. Visit my mom, see how Nicky's doing. The change of scenery won't hurt."

Dobey gave him a look that indicated he thought Starsky was pulling his leg, but said, "Sounds like your mind is made up. I'm going to head back to the office—drop by and see me before you leave. And tell your partner he can have the rest of the day off, but I'll expect him in tomorrow morning."

"Will do, Cap."

As Dobey made his way towards his car, Starsky went back to the house, meeting Hutch on the front porch.

After locking the door, Hutch said, "So, we done?"

"Yeah. Dobey left a message for you—you want the good news or bad?"

"The good."

"You've got the rest of the day off."

"Oh, that's…great. Forget telling me the bad news, I already know what it is," Hutch said dismally.

Starsky smiled. "Well, I think I'm ready to call it a day. Mind takin' me home?"

"You want to go grab dinner later?"

"Well, actually I was thinking about havin' dinner with Bree. Do you mind?"

Hutch shook his head. "No, that's fine. We'll do lunch tomorrow."

Starsky was ready to remind him that he wasn't back on the payroll, but decided to let it go. Besides, he had to work out what he needed to do first, and then break the bad news to Hutch. Starsky was sure his partner wasn't going to like it.

.

"God, I am so full," Bree said as she dropped her fork onto her empty plate. "I swear you know every good restaurant in this town. What's your secret?"

"I do a lot of dating. Well, _did_ a lot of dating." Starsky squirmed a bit. He wasn't sure why he said that. Truth be told, Bree was probably the only female he'd been out in public with ever since, well… since Gunther. _Shit._ One of these days, he'd come up with an appropriate word or term to call that hellish experience that would only evoke a slightly nauseating reaction_. Right._

"Well, it's not like you work banker's hours, you know," Bree remarked. "I'm surprised you get out as much as you do."

Starsky forced himself back into the present. "So, did you enjoy your dinner?" he asked.

She gave him a slight smile as she reached out and ran her fingers along the outside of her water glass. "Davey, you've been acting like there's something on your mind all evening. How about cutting the small talk and tell me what's bugging you?"

"Humph. I guess that's what I get for having a mind reader as a sister." Responding to Bree's sudden scowl, he said, "Okay, you're right. There is something, I'm just not sure how to word it."

"Are you mad at me about something?" she ventured.

"No, it's not about you. Well, it kinda is about you…"

"Davey," Bree said sharply.

"Alright, but remember, you're my sister, so no making fun of me if you value your life."

Bree quickly took a drink to mask her smile.

"When you…hear those disembodied voices, what do they sound like?"

Caught in a mid-swallow, Bree slammed the glass down on the table as water spewed out of her mouth. She snatched her napkin up and held it to her mouth as she tried to stifle a coughing fit.

"Hey! You gonna live?" Starsky asked, already regretting his previous question.

Bree waved a hand in front of her face, which had reddened a little, and choked out one last cough. "I'm…fine," she said, gasping like a fish out of water. "Really." After taking another moment to compose herself, she added hoarsely, "Davey, are you hearing voices?"

"I didn't say that!" _Who was he trying to fool?_ "Just answer my question, will you?"

"My, aren't we pushy?" Bree griped, setting her napkin on the table. She peered at Starsky, then clearing her throat, said, "When I hear someone, from beyond, they sound just like you or me. Sometimes, it's a little…I guess I'd say 'staticky,' you know? Kinda whispered, but pretty normal-sounding." In a more determined tone, she asked, "What did you hear?"

"Well, sparin' all the nasty details, earlier today I thought I heard Trevor talking to me. Only, it didn't really sound like him."

"What made you think it was him, then?"

"Just a hunch…"

"Then trust your feelings. Did he say something good or bad?"

"Huh?"

"You mentioned 'nasty details.' Is that because of what he said?"

"Oh. No, he didn't say anything bad. I'd say it was more like some fatherly advice."

"Well, it sounds like it came at a good time then, right?"

"It did. A _real_ good time."

Bree studied him shrewdly, then said, "What else is going on, Davey? Something's still bothering you."

Bowing his head, Starsky said, "After you came over with your boss that time, I went to that doctor he thought I should see."

"Doctor Phillips?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's the one."

"So, what did he say?"

"Nothing too surprising," he said, lifting his head. "Sounded like your doc. Said he could probably make me feel better and fix things so I wouldn't be hurtin' so much."

"And that's not what you wanted to hear?"

"Of course, it's just that—he can't guarantee I'll still be good enough to go back on the street."

Bree remained silent for a long moment. "It sounds like you've got two choices," she finally said. "Either don't do anything and hope things don't get worse, or go for the surgery and hope things go alright. I'm willing to bet that you haven't discussed any of this with Hutch, have you?"

"Nope."

"Then it's not me you want to talk to. Davey, whatever you decide is going to impact Hutch just as much as you. I can't understand how you don't see how much he loves you."

Bree's mention of the word 'love' got his attention. "And can't you understand that's exactly why I can't make a decision like this based on what _**I **_want? I'd do anything to get well again, but if I can't go back working with Hutch, then what does it matter?"

"Can you honestly tell me what Hutch would want?" Bree demanded.

Starsky thought about that, but couldn't answer her question. He sighed and then, grudgingly, shook his head.

"Well, dummy, I think you know where to go from here."

.

Standing in front of Hutch's door, Starsky wished he could be someplace else, like in the middle of a bank holdup, or chasing down a fugitive in a dark alley. As scary as those situations were, he'd have no problem deciding what to do. It was simply a choice between black and white. Protect himself, along with his partner, and the bad guy be damned. No grey areas there. Not like this, though. Here, he had to make a choice between two rights. If he opted for himself, Hutch could end up on his own, but if he put Hutch first, then both of them could end up screwed. Recognizing he wouldn't find any answers just standing there, Starsky knocked on the door.

"Hey, what are you doing here?" Hutch said, on answering the door. "I thought you were having dinner with Bree."

"Just got finished. Thought I'd come over for a minute. You alone?"

"Not anymore. Come on in." As Starsky entered, Hutch asked, "You want a beer?"

"Sure," Starsky answered, not really wanting one, but alcohol had proven useful before in tough situations. He went over and sat on the couch. It seemed like ages since he'd been here. He glanced around the room, seeing if everything looked familiar, but silently worried he'd find something that wasn't—an indication of being gone too long.

When his partner returned, Starsky casually said, "Dobey called me earlier. Said the DA finally dropped the charge."

"Starsky, that's great!" Hutch exclaimed, handing him the beer. "Isn't it?"

No doubt his partner had noticed that Starsky wasn't exactly jumping for joy. "Hutch, we gotta talk."

"Oh," Hutch replied. "Sounds like I should sit down."

He grabbed a chair from the kitchen and placed it near the couch. Starsky waited until he was seated before speaking. "I'm taking off in a few days. Gonna go back East and visit with Ma— probably check on Nicky, see how he's doin'."

"I'm sure you'll have a nice visit. How long are you going to be gone?"

Starsky leaned forward and set his beer on the coffee table. "I'm not sure," he said softly.

Hutch opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but hesitated. He cocked his head and let out a loud sigh. "Starsky, what is it that you're trying to run away from?" he asked sternly. "Is it me?"

"You? No, it ain't you."

"Then what!? You told me before, you left because you didn't want to be reminded of certain things. So, what're you doing? Trying to find someplace where you won't get hurt, and never have people around who don't like you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I just need some time to think."

"Think about what? C'mon, Starsk. You're my partner, not someone I just picked up off of the street. I care about you and whatever's bugging you. That's my job; to make sure I've got your back."

Starsky shuddered as his gaze dropped to the floor. He'd made that same declaration to Trevor. Even said something about the bad guys having to go through him first. As Starsky looked back at Hutch, the glint of tears coming down his partner's face got his attention.

"Hutch, what—" Then it hit. Starsky jumped off the couch but before he could reach him, Hutch shot out of his chair and headed to the kitchen. Stopping halfway across the room, Starsky said, "Hey, that wasn't your fault; how many times have I gotta tell you? What you saw just now? I said that same thing to Trevor. I was blaming myself, not you."

Hutch turned on the sink faucet and splashed some water on his face. Propping himself with one arm on the counter, he said, "We keep saying that, Starsky, but I don't think we believe it. You'd rather run from your fears than blame me for them, and I'd rather deny that I didn't try to protect you."

"My only fear is that I can't be what you deserve for a partner—not that you can't protect me. And yeah, Gunther got me good, but not because you couldn't be Superman." Hutch slowly straightened, then turned to face him. "Hutch, if I'm running away, then it's only because I'm scared of losing you by staying."

"Starsk, you got me. You'll always have me. If you'd died that day, without me telling you goodbye—I couldn't have lived with that.

Starsky glanced down at his feet. "We've always read each other pretty good," he said. "Wouldn't you have known what was in my heart?"

"To be honest, I don't know. That night in your apartment…would I have known then? Did you even think about leaving me a note, buddy?"

"Hutch, don't bring that up," Starsky said, then glanced at the front door.

"Why? Because you weren't afraid of losing me then? I want an answer, Starsky. That's what I _deserve _from my partner."

"I told you before, I was just being selfish."

"No, damn it! I want the _real_ reason!"

"Fuck you, Hutchinson!" Starsky snapped. He charged into the kitchen, and when he reached Hutch, he didn't stop. Grabbing him with both hands, Starsky shoved him against the refrigerator. "Why can't you just leave that alone!?" All Starsky wanted to do was hit him, but he needed Hutch to say one more thing.

"Because being your partner earns me the right."

That wasn't it.

"Fuck!" Starsky screamed, then pushed himself off. "You want to know so bad? Fine!" He tried to keep his eyes on Hutch, but couldn't. "You know, I've always been willing to do anything for you when we're out there. The first couple of times I got shot, it wasn't that big of a deal." Starsky paused to take a breath. "But Gunther…" Suddenly, he couldn't hold it in anymore. "Ah, hell…he made me realize…he made me realize that I couldn't take getting shot anymore." Looking back at Hutch, he said, "Don't you see? For the first time—I didn't want to be a cop. I can't keep being a target out there, or see you bein' one either…it just hurts too much. And this last time—it took too much. That's why…that's why I tried to…shit—I'm scared, Hutch."

"Oh, Starsk…" Hutch reached up and wrapped his arms around his friend. When the sobbing didn't ease, he took hold of the curly head and drew it under his chin. "I'm sorry, babe, I'm so sorry. You know I'd take every ounce of pain away if I could." Hutch paused, then said, "I think I'm the one being selfish. I wanted you alive and everything like it used to be. I guess it didn't matter that you were hurting. I just couldn't let you go. I don't think I ever could."

Starsky lifted his head and gently separated from Hutch. He wiped the tears off of his face and gazed back at his partner. "Hutch, I need a break. I gotta think about some things, make some decisions."

"And you've got to go clear across the country to do this?"

"Yeah, I do. I've been trying to push too much stuff inside lately and it won't fit anymore. I need to figure out what to do…on my own." Starsky could see his last comment didn't go over too well. "Hutch, you'll always be my pal, nothing will ever change that, but it's time to let go, buddy. Please, do this."

"Starsky, you know anything you decide…" Hutch closed his eyes and nodded. Opening them, he said, "Will you call if you need anything?"

"I promise."

TBC


	27. Chapter 27

Epilogue

.

A few days later, Starsky had packed the last items in his suitcase. Between Bree, Huggy and Hutch, his apartment would be well looked after. When he'd called Rachel with the news, she'd cried with joy for almost five minutes. Starsky couldn't blame her. She almost hadn't made it to Bay City after he was shot. Fortunately, Uncle Al chipped in some money, and she arrived only a few days later. And back then, well, the odds had been against him surviving very long.

Starsky carried the bag into the living room and glanced at the wall clock. He smiled; he had a few hours before he needed to leave for the airport. That was enough time to do two last errands.

Parking at the precinct, Starsky went in the rear entrance. The plan was to avoid running into as many people as possible. He wasn't sure what the reaction at work had been to the whole Babcock and Simmons' incident, and frankly, he didn't want to know. It was just one of the things he had to get away from, at least long enough for the incident to fade from recent memory. He succeeded in making it to Dobey's office without incident, thankful there was another entrance so he didn't have to go in through the squad room. He knocked on the door and, after hearing Dobey's bark, let himself in.

"Starsky!" Dobey exclaimed, getting out of his chair, "How are you?" He clapped one hand on Starsky's shoulder, and with his other, reached for Starsky's hand.

"I'm good, Cap." Taking a quick look around, he quipped, "I see the place hasn't changed."

Dobey ignored the remark. "Have a seat," he said, sitting back down. "You're on your way to the airport?"

"Yeah, thought I'd stop by here first. When you called last night and said you wanted to see me, it sounded pretty important."

"Too bad I can't get you to obey my orders that well when you're on the time clock."

Starsky just smirked in reply, watching as the captain pulled out an envelope from the desk drawer.

Handing it to him, Dobey said, "I wanted to give this to you before you left. I don't know if it'll make a difference in your future plans, but at least you'll know it's here in case you need it."

His interest piqued, Starsky took the envelope and opened it. He pulled out the enclosed letter and started reading it. After going through its contents twice, Starsky shakily asked, "Capt'n, this for real?"

"Of course it is. Don't you know an official departmental letter when you see one?"

"But this says I've got nearly two months of sick time. How—"

"Let's just say a lot of Santa's little helpers decided to stick something nice in your stocking this year."

Starsky put the letter back inside the envelope, and tried to hide his emotions. "Will you make sure to let them know, I really appreciate it?"

"I'd rather leave that up to you, but I'll make sure they get the message. You did notice that's just _sick_ time, not vacation. If you want that, you're gonna have to come back to work and _earn_ it."

"Thanks, Capt'n. For everything." And standing up, Starsky rounded the desk and stuck his hand out.

Dobey grabbed it, then brought him in for a tight hug. "Take care, son. When you're ready to come back, you let me know."

Starsky pulled back and gave Dobey a wink. He then left the office, feeling a little lighter in his heart.

.

Back in the Torino, Starsky fired the motor up and headed to his next destination. The drive to the cemetery was long, but at least it was in the same direction as the airport. Stopping at the visitor's office, Starsky got directions to the grave site and soon stood in front of a polished marble headstone.

Trevor Adrian Woods

February 19, 1929 -- December 2, 1979

Beloved Husband, Cherished Friend

He will be missed

"Hey, buddy," he said.

Starsky sat down on the grass.

"You've got a really nice spot here," he said, taking in the peaceful surroundings. "Sorry it's taken me a while to come and see you. I guess you know a couple of things came up. I remembered what we were talkin' about, you know, right before you got shot. I know I didn't listen to you, but that bastard was going down if it was the last thing I ever did. I ain't regretting it either, at least not now."

He paused for a long moment, wondering if he could hear Trevor's voice again. "Was that you, when Hutch and I were out with Babcock? I figured it had to be. It's a wonder you even tried to talk to me again…considering how I didn't listen so good the first time." Starsky half smiled, then grew serious again.

"I promise I'll check on Mary every chance I get. She's really an amazing woman, but I guess you already knew that. I'm leaving today, though—going back to New York for a while. I'm probably just trying to run away, like you said, but I can't stay around here right now. Too many bad memories."

Starsky fell silent for a few minutes, then said, "I hope you're at peace, Trevor. And I hope you know how much I appreciated your friendship. You were right about me and Hutch…"

Feeling he had said everything he wanted to, Starsky stood up. "Take care, partner. Gonna miss you. Oh, and if you meet a guy named Peter Ramos, don't believe everything he tells you, okay? Dobey chewed his ass just as much as he did mine."

.

Hutch climbed the staircase at Venice Place, trying to balance two sacks of groceries while carefully navigating each step so he wouldn't trip. Arriving at his front door, he set one of the bags down so he could reach above the threshold to grab the key. He let himself in, and headed to the kitchen. He was about to set the bags down when he noticed a small box wrapped in bright red paper, tied with a white ribbon, sitting in the middle of the table. Hutch placed the groceries on the counter, then went to inspect the package.

"Ah, Starsk…you told me not to get you anything."

There was a small tag attached to the gift. Reading the message on it brought a smile to his face.

To: Hutch

Don't open until X-mas!

Love, Santa S.

.

Across town, Suko breathed a sigh of relief. As he walked through the last metal door with his guard, he took in the bright and open exercise yard filled with general population inmates. Still upset that he'd not only gotten screwed out of his money, but also been sentenced to seven years, he knew with good behavior he'd be out in five. Spotting an empty bench, he walked over and sat down. He immediately pulled a cigarette pack from his shirt pocket and lit one up. Taking a deep drag, he slowly blew the smoke out. Compared to solitary, doing his time here wouldn't be so bad. Besides, he could already pick out several patsies that looked like easy marks. Hitting them up for money and other favors would soon pay off handsomely. As he started to take another drag from his cigarette, someone came up from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to see who it was, and didn't even flinch as the cigarette dropped from his lips to smolder on his thigh.

"Hello, Frankie—fancy meetin' you here," Vinetti said brightly.

.

THE END

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End file.
